Family Ties
by Chibi Tears Of Pain
Summary: The Weasley Family has survived the terror of Voldemort's "Purity War," now Arthur, Molly and their eight children will have to face life in the magical world, and the danger that such a life entails.
1. A New Addition

Family Ties

By** Chibi Tears of Pain**

"I'm going to - ahhhhh - to kill that...that **man**!" The woman tighten her grip on the steel railing of the hospital bed, knuckles whitened and arms tensed as another contraction rippled from her stomach. After taking a moment to heavily suck in some much need oxygen, she threw her head back and -

"Aghhhhh!"

The redhead collapsed onto the supporting pillows behind her, panting for breath, dazedly tuning out the medi-witch who was trying to offer her sweet (yet indisputably fake) reassurances that "it would all be over soon."

This wasn't supposed to be happening…it was too soon. Her baby was due near the end of July, but here she was, in an over-crowded Saint Mungo's, on the 15th of May, with a child who-just-wouldn't-stay-in. She should have never left her apartment, but she had the undeniable craving for pickled ice-cream (…a weird _and_ painful child) which she knew she could get at Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. So off she went, seven months pregnant to get some damn ice-cream for the – "aggghhhhh" – little menace.

Coincidently, You-Know-Who's Death Eaters also decided a visit to Diagon Alley was in order, and chaos was determined to follow closely behind. The alley was soon filled with panicked screams, mass confusion and bright lights from the multitude of deadly spells that the Death Eaters enthusiastically deployed. A flash of red here and a woman fell to the ground screaming; her eight year old child swept up and lost in the terror-filled mob. A burst of sickly green light over there, and a man to her left fell silently to the ground, his sudden demise so abrupt that she stumbled back into the covered entrance of the shop that sold magical instruments; numbly watching as men and woman ran by, screaming for all their worth as the bright lights finally caught up to them.

A stab of pain made her knees give way, causing her to slide down the brick wall upon which she leaned; her hands grasping at the rusted-red brick, vainly trying to slow her descend onto the pitiless concrete. She watched, transfixed, as the fabric of her maternity dress seemed to bloom blood red flowers. The sopping wet cloth gaining weight as the colour spread; the material making her shiver from the chill it gave as it settle onto the sides of her stomach. She stared at the top of her stomach, horror dawning as the situation – and _pain_ – filtered through her haze-filled mind. Her stomach was bleeding, her bloated, rounded, pushed-out-belly buttoned stomach was bleeding; her baby was…was…

'_That bastard hit her with a cutting curse – no he hit __her __**baby **__with a cutting curse… the little –_'

Her head snapped up, eyes slowly scanning the frantic crowd which was still in massive disarray, until she her eyes landed on a Death Eater. A squat little man that was foolishly standing in a somewhat open space, firing off curses carelessly, sending colourful spouts of magic any which way.

_A Death Eater…a Death Eater was responsible for hexing her baby…a Death Eater…_

Amycus Carrow's high pitched, winded laugh rang through the ear-splitting screams, before his eyes met those of the collapsed Lily Evans. A lopsided leer formed on Amycus's face he zealously raised his wand, steadying it upon her prone figure.

Lily watched as the…the Death Eater raised his wand; the sparks eagerly escaping its tip were warning of what was to come. They were green sparks, the same shade of green that was to be her baby's eyes; the same shade of green as her eyes. She had not deluded herself by hoping the baby would turn out red haired, green eyed, and with as little resemblance to it's father as possible. In fact, the child would probably bear a strong likeness to it's father – no it's _donor_. But no matter the similarities, the child – _her_ child – would have the same shade of bright bottle green eyes that she saw in the bathroom mirror every morning. It would have the same eyes that – she had been told – allowed anyone to see inside, to see the emotions that were forever on display, and that no amount of Occlumency could distort. Her child would have eyes the same colour that was emerging from the tip of the Death Eaters wand; the same _green_ as…as _**Avada Kedavra**_.

_**Avada Kedavra**_…the curse that was heading toward her; the curse that would kill her. It was the curse that would end her life; that would end the life of her –

Amycus scowled as the Evans woman seemed to gain her bearings and flung herself onto the pavement, debris flying out from the wall were the curse impacted it, showering the woman with the remains of the shattered brick.

Lily looked up at the Death Eater, the movement rubbed gravel into the many cuts and scrapes that now adorned her body, but still, she watched the Death Eater as he glowered at her from where he stood raising his wand once more, anger taking the place of giddy excitement.

Lily slowly moved her hand towards the bag strapped to her side, her wand dangling precariously from one of its pockets, but still out of the Death Eaters sight.

Slowly…her fingers just brushed the handle of her wand, trying to keep her movement unnoticed by the – another green light emerged from the Death Eaters wand, this spell coming at her with more power and speed than one before it. She used her arm pushed her body roughly to the side while her other arm latched firmly onto her wand, drawing it out in front of her.

Amycus smirked in accomplishment at the cloud of rumble that had resulted from his last curse, the curse that had rid the Wizarding World of yet another mudblood; dirty little thing that it was. Did the world a favour he –

Amycus stared dumbly at the wand pointed at him with deadly accuracy, then at he mudblood he had…he thought he had…

"I will never forgive you for trying to hurt my baby."

_Sectumsempra._

'_That was Snape's spell; that dirty little half-blood was consorting with mud –_' Amycus' last thought was never completed as his head was severed from his neck by a curse that was made by a man he once called a colleague.

The slight scuffle of feet shuffling through rubble, gratingly dragging on concrete made Lily look over her shoulder at the obviously clueless Auror standing behind her…._he must have come through the store floo_...Their surroundings seemed to fade as both woman and Auror stared at each other in faint – because to feel anything deeper meant that they were both out of their state of shock – surprise.

Blinking, Lily asked rhetorically, "Isn't it your job to take down Death Eaters?"

Colour flooded the young mans – no boys; he could be no older than eighteen – face as he tried to formulate a reply.

"Well…uh, you see Ma'm, I was part of the advanced placement program and I … uh, well that was my first, uh…"

--

"Aaaaagggghhhhhhh!"

"That's great Ms. Evans, just take another deep breath now, that's right, alright on three, I want you to push – hey I said on three- oh! Oh alright. C'mon now another push and –"

"Ahhhhhggggg!"

_I__f she ever saw that – that __**man**__ again she would…_

"I can see the head now, so you need to keep pushing Ms. Evans…"

…_make him understand just how…_

"It's okay Ms. Evans, we're almost fin –"

…_**painful **__it was to… _

"Just one more push now!"

…_try and push a __**baby**__ out of his…_

"Aaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

And newborn child's wail joined that of its mothers.

"Congratulations, Ms. Evans, it's a boy! A little on the small side, but that is to be expected, being born premature and all – Ms. Evans? Ms. Evan?! I need some help in here! Someone go get Healer Kendal. Now! She's not responding…"

_There was no need to yell…I'm just tired…I'll see my child – my boy, it was a boy – I'll see my boy when I wake up…I'll just close my eyes, only for a minute…_

A wizard and a witch rushed into the curtained area, hearing their co-worker's distressed cries. One of them grabbed the paitent's wrist, the other started to wave her wand in a figure eight motion over Lily's motionless body, both shouting out stats to the first witch, who had just placed the now abnormally quiet child in a crib off to the side.

_No need to panic, I'm fine, really__…I just want to…to sleep, then I'll be able to look into my baby's eye; eyes greener than that Auror who brought me here…_here she had the uncontrollable urge to giggle..._but first a nap; nothing wrong with that…it's just a…what did the old man call it…its just another great adventure…just…yes, just that…_

Rubber bottomed shoes skidded on the tiled floor, their approach muted by the nurses yells for assistance and the wretched moaning of the wards many patients. There was the screech of the plastic rings across a metal bar as what little privacy the curtain offered was ripped away, signifying Healer Caleb Kendal's too late arrival. The mans expression of grim determination melting into one of bitter disappointment as the limp figure of Lily Evans and still forms of the witches and wizard came into view.

Not taking his eyes off of the newly departed mother, he asked "Have you timed it yet?"

The original witch mutely shook her head, while the other two filed out of the area; there was nothing they could do now.

The Healer glanced once more at the dead woman before shaking his head and looking up at the wall mounted clock, frozen at the time she left the world. "Her name?"

"Lily Evans, 21 years of age." Was the medi-witch's quiet reply.

"Very well, T.O.D is three fifteen am, on Monday May the sixteenth, 1980," said the Healer. He watched as the witch wrote the information on a clipboard then prepared to leave. Her voice stopped his departure.

"Sir? What of the child?" Her inquiry was hesitantly voiced…as if it were too loud it would disrupt the rare calm that had befallen this end of the ward.

"Did she name the father?" He did not even turn to face her when he asked this.

"No sir, she said he wouldn't want the boy so it was not necessary for us to know his name." He sighed once again.

"Did she touch the boy? Bond with it?"

"No sir." She felt helpless, she always did after they lost someone and so all she could do was answer the questions that would lead to her following a procedure that always made her feel as if she hadn't done enough..

"Then as a young, unbonded child, he will be easily adopted – make sure that the hospital staff that will be working with him know not to touch him." The Hearler left before she could put together her customary 'Yes, sir.'

Turning to the unnamed boy, she carefully levitated the blanket he was on, and started to chatter, more for her own comfort than his, as she tried to fill the void that death had once again left in its wake.

--

"Hello , is everything going okay here? Do you need anything?"

Molly looked up at the witch who had stuck her head in the room, obviously assigned to checking in on her. Shifting her newest child in her arms, she returned the nurses bright smile.

"No thanks, we're both fine. How is it going on out there? Has all the commotion out there finally died down?" Molly, after having given birth to five boys already, had given up on trying to curb her own curiosity when it became too tiring to try and rein that of her boys.

"Yes, thank Merlin. There was an attack on Diagon Alley yesterday evening," she nodded sympathetically at Molly's gasp, "so many people were injured…and we were understaffed as it was… it was a nightmare, but we've just managed to get it under control." Had her tone not been so full of relief, it would have been easily recognisable as the flighty gossip all woman seemed to be gifted in.

Fully stepping into the room, the witch craned her neck to get a better view of the baby in the woman's arms. "That's little Ronald, right?"

Beaming like the proud parent she was, Molly nodded. "Yes, this is little one is Ron, he's my sixth you know, and he's so much quieter than the others, I swear they wailed my ears off…"

"A bit big though, isn't he?" the nurse commented offhandedly, both women now absorbed in sport of baby watching.

"Yes, he was two months overdue, just wouldn't come out, this one…" Both women chatted lightly while adoring the small child, no more than a few hours old, slept on.

--

"…and now the child is not only motherless, but no one has a clue as to who the father might be… it's said he left her right in the middle of the pregnancy and hasn't been heard from since," said the secretary, passing the story on to the medi-witch who leaned over the reception desk conspiringly.

"Poor boy," the medi-witch cooed compassionately, "but he's unbonded so…he could still be adopted right? I mean, aren't non-bonded babies in demand or something?"

The receptionist nodded, "But the little dear doesn't even have a name, the mother died before she could even so much as look at him, you know. Such a shame, she was a real beauty too," this time it was the medi-witch who made a sound of understanding, "but I swear if it weren't for their eyes being the same, you would have never been able to tell they were related. She was a redhead, like I mean a _real_ red head, like fiery and all that, you know?" She continued at the medi-witch's nod. "And the little boy, he has this cute little tuff of black fuzz on the top of his head, the most adorable little thing he is…" The receptionist would have continued to gush had a firm clearing of a throat not interrupted her. Both women looked up startled, the receptionists murky brown eyes looked up to meet twinkling baby blue.

"Headmaster Dumbledore, sir! What are you doing – uh, I mean what can I do for, no I mean – I'm sorry sir, how may I be of service to you?" The receptionist shrugged sheepishly at her floundering.

His eyes seemed to twinkle all the more at this, "I could not help but overhear," the two hospital workers blush at this admittance, "you both speaking of a woman who I believe I might know," turning to the receptionist, he asked "could you be a dear and check if the woman you mentioned before is indeed named Lily Evans?" A gentle smile sent the receptionist scurrying off to do as he asked.

He turned and smiled at the medi-witch. "I was on my way to pass on my good wishes to Weasley's, when your conversation strongly reminded me an old beloved student of mine, who I hadn't seen since her graduation, she was Head Girl, you know, and was one of the most talented Charms –"

"Yes sir, the departed mother was one Lily Evans." The receptionist had returned while Dumbledore was talking.

"And her son? What will happen to him?" The sorrow laced gaze that the Headmaster had latched onto the receptionist made her falter, and she was unable to form a coherent sentence, as every word combination she thought of seemed as if it would destroy what little hope the older man had.

The medi-witch was also experiencing the same problem, but to a lesser extent, so it was her who answered. "Once he is cleared, he uh, will be taken to, I mean, he will be placed in an uh, an uh, facility that will uh…allow for his um, his adoption…" The medi-witch trailed off weakly, feeling as if she had failed the aged Headmaster.

"I…I see" there was just enough of hesitance in the statement to continue his manipulation perfectly.

"Could I ask you girls – no, no, it would be far too unfair on you, far too unreasonable for young ladies such as yourselves–"

"Please sir, allow us to help!" the receptionist face played out a startling expression of desperation…_ah, youth these days…_

Smiling down at them, he continued to spin his web "…my dears, it would far too much for an old man like myself to ask of you –"

"No sir, nothing would please us more than knowing we were able to of some assistance…" This time it was the medi-witch who interrupted him.

"Well, if you're both so sure…" just enough reluctance was added onto the last word, and they were both nodding eagerly, perfectly ensnared by his manoeuvring.

"Well, alright then," quickly looking both ways, he leaned over the counter, copying the medi-witch's earlier position, "what I need you to do is of utmost importance and requires your absolute silence on the matter…"

--

"Hello, Arthur"

Arthur looked up, traces of his surprise at the man's visit softened to reveal a genuine, albeit small, smile of greeting.

"Headmaster." The quick and distracted greeting was all he received from Molly, who had immediately gone back to admiring her baby.

Smiling gently the man walked into the room, walking slowly, as to not jar the carefully wrapped bundle in his hands. Carefully balancing the bundle between his arm and his chest so he could draw his wand, Albus promptly transfigured the hospital issue slippers at the end of the bed into a large, and somewhat outdated (but only by a few centuries…), gaudy, yellow arm chairwith a headache inducing pattern that alternated between lime green and neon baby blue. He then smoothly lowered himself into the cushy refines of the piece of …furniture.

By now Arthur had noticed the large pile of blankets in the mans arms, not even blinking at the headmasters eccentricities, too use to them to notice.

"What have you got there, Albus?" The Headmasters smile grew when presented with the unfailing Weasley curiosity that inhabited all the members of such a family.

"I can't keep anything from you, can I Arthur?" he said, his voice holding back a poorly concealed chuckle, while he smiled proudly down at the man.

Arthur frowned, far from impressed by the grandfatherly masquerade the Headmaster insisted on continuing. He decided that a blank stare was his best response.

Albus let his smile fade into a grim line, and the twinkling of his eyes dye until they showed how utterly serious he was, knowing better than to beat around the bush with a man who had five very active, very curious and very _clever_ young boys. Looking down at the bundle he slowly moved the outer most blanket to the side, allowing the male Weasley to glimpse what was inside.

Dumbledore looked up when heard Molly gasp at the child in his arms and stared bemused at Arthurs wide eyed stared focused on the little boy.

"Albus, why would – who does…" Arthur paused to collect his thoughts, "What is the child's name?"

Albus gave them a small smile, before turning his eyes to the boy, and then he addressed Arthur's earlier question.

"He doesn't have a name, nor parents to give him one…" Molly clucked sympathetically for the boy, her own child stirring sleepily in her arms. Arthur's face, however, was one of thinly veiled annoyance.

"No games Albus," he said, "if you have something to say, please, just say it." Arthur would be the first to admit he enjoyed the headmasters company. But he had seemed to have lost the patience that it took to decipher the old coots complicated word puzzles and complex manipulations. Both of the Weasley parents fixed there eyes on their old Headmaster, waiting for the blunt truth, willing to accept nothing else.

"He was born not thirty-five minutes ago, coming into the world as his mother left it. The hospital does not know who the father is." Arthur shot him a sharp look when he said hospital, correctly suspecting that the old man, did indeed, know who the father was. "And according to hospital records, the boy was a still born."

The last statement caught the couple by surprise; both eyed the older man questioningly.

"If the boy is a…stillborn, then why does he breathe?" Arthur asked cautiously, his eyes darting between the headmaster and the obviously movement of the blanket over the baby's chest.

The twinkle came back full force and the old man smiled, leaving Arthur with a feeling of dread, centering in this stomach before rising and taking hold of his heart. Nothing was ever simple when the headmaster looked at someone like that.

"Why, the same reason little Ronald over there is but one, yet according to the hospital records, has a twin…" the twinkle intensified.

"What?!"

"Headmaster, I think I would know if I had a seventh child!" A shocked and staggered Molly responded.

The headmaster just smiled at them.

"Albus, I – We can't – We – another set of twins – I don't – I…" Arthur wavered under Dumbledore's amused gaze and the implications of what he had said.

Becoming serious once more, Albus finally came out and stated the real reason for his visit.

"He needs a home, Arthur. One with love and family and laughter, something he would not receive should someone other than I had found him sooner. He needs to disappear, for if he is found it will be more than a 'little family dispute.'"

He saw the hesitancy and helplessness in the male Weasley's eyes as the man stared at the boy in his arms; that would not do, should they decide to take the boy, their will had to be absolute.

"I am not asking you to treat him any differently than the rest of your children, or even expect to give him up in the future. Should you take the boy, he will be yours, down to flesh, blood, bone and magic…"

The room was silent while the couple thought over the child in his arms. A questioning glance to his wife, and her return nod was the incentive Arthur needed to reach his arms out, silently asking to hold the child; _his new son._

Dumbledore had silently gotten up to leave, discreetly turning his chair back in to a nicer (yet more outlandish) pair of ruby and turquoise slippers than they were in their original, dulled state.

At the door, the old man turned back to look at the family, and he watched as the magic rushed to bond the newest addition to the family to his parents and brother; a bond that all babies form with the first skin contact they have, and a simple touch that will determine the child's looks, and familial bonds for the rest of the child's stay on this plane.

Albus quietly opened the door before walking out and slowly shutting it behind him, mentally giving his best wishes to the happy (and now quite large) family._ 'I love magical adoption; so much more __**final **__than the muggle alternative…' _

And with that final thought, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Order of Merlin, First Class, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, whistled merrily for the first time since Tom Riddle had openly declared war on the wizarding world.


	2. A Change in Destiny

Family Ties

By** Chibi Tears of Pain**

_A person screamed and the wind carried their cry, carried it until the ear ringing yell faded into another thousand cries, getting lost in the mass of sound, it weakened and wilted until it was there no longer. But such demise went unnoticed upon the battle torn field._

_Blood poured. Screams pierced the ears of those who fought upon the field. Blurs soared overhead; people on brooms battled both harsh winds and hardened wizards in the air. The only light was from the flashing spells, briefly revealing that which hid in this dark night, then it is engulfed by a human body, and by being such the fragile thing that it is, it collapse in on itself, devoid of the life that had been only fleetingly grasped. The moon, horrified of mans brutality, had hidden itself behind heavy clouds._

_In the darkness it was difficult to even identify your opponent as human, and if you were lucky, they actually were. Werewolves and giants; bitten, crushed, clawed and clubbed. Some swore they had seen a man attack his foe's neck, grasping onto the throat with his teeth: a vampire. Then there was the skilfully controlled flame, not quite bright enough to lend light to the unyielding night, but still capable of swallowing a man – veela then. _

_A filthy blood traitor took out another in black robes, the skull mask, having caught the light of a stray curse, had been the Death Eater's downfall._

_The Death Eater scum rallied together, forming an impenetrable barrier that was steadily moving forward._

_It is a supernatural feeling that makes you turn, a dog, no wolf – but it is too big to be a wolf – lunges – there's teeth then -_

_Another scream is added to the wind._

_--_

"– but Muuhum!"

"Don't you 'but Mum' me, William Arthur Weasley, I said 'to bed' and I meant it this instant!"

"But…"

"No stalling young man. NOW." And she stood there, staring at her eldest son, one hand on her hip while her right arm was occupied with an agitated Ronald. She stared to absentmindedly bounce the boy – up too late, just like the rest of them.

Molly allowed herself a small smile as she heard young Bill trudge up the stairs toward the third floor bathroom, the fifth step creaking as he put his full weight on it.

She started towards the sitting room, "'to bed' included you as well Charlie." A sigh, then the tell tale sound of reluctant feet marching down the hall, and the quite click of a door.

Molly, now at the entrance of the sitting room, approached the crib stationed in the middle of the room. Their second hand couch, not quite worn in yet, had been pushed against the far wall, and the crib was placed in its spot in front of the fire.

She carefully placed baby Ron in the crib beside his brother. Ronald was easily excitable and, like Bill and Charlie, never seemed to want to sleep at conventional times. His brother, however, would sleep and rise with the sun, no exceptions.

Molly turned down the oil lamps so they barley lit the sitting room before she exited, heading towards the stairs, pausing only to wish the passing, pyjama clad Bill a good night.

--

_A lone man stood at the end of the battle field. It was not his bright robes that made him visible in this night, for they had faded to grey in the dark, but his magic. His apparent old age could not hide such a __**powerful**__ persona. Albus Dumbledore stood before Hogwarts, facing the incoming wave of Death Eaters with his small number of Order members and Auror's. He did not falter in the apparent difference of numbers, and neither did his 'troops.' _

_Such a countenance could have been because a number of the people were Gryffindors – confronting astronomical odds with bravery and unyielding courage, or it could have been because they had faith in Dumbledore – having rid the world of Grindelwald, he would be able to destroy You-Know-Who as well. It could have been because some of them were young and naïve, believing that 'Light' shall always triumph over 'Dark,' or because they had experienced so much that they refused to give the enemy the pleasure of taking their dignity, as they had already taken their families. _

_But all knew, though few admitted it, they would not have been able to stand and fight and __**defend**__ Hogwarts so well had Albus Dumbledore not been there. Order of Merlin, First Class, he might have, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards and Chief Warlock of the __Wizengamot__, he might be, but all those titles meant nothing upon that field. It was because Albus Dumbledore radiated power, showing people the skilfully hidden but carefully preserved__role of the hero, of hope, and determination. He had strength in abundance, and so his warriors could leech off this willpower and resolve, and make it their own. __Albus Dumbledore had __**magic.**_

--

She was half way up the stairs when her wand decided it would rather imitate a tea kettle and start blowing steam. Quickly pulling the wand out of her apron pocket, Molly rapidly flicked it many times. It was as if she was trying to quell invisible flames that had caught onto the end of her wand, and sure enough, the steam stopped, its only remains dissipating into the air.

There was a pause and the house, full of seven rambunctious boys, was abnormally silent. Then Molly dashed into motion. Running up the stairs and down the hallway of the second floor, she yanked open the purple-y (or maybe it was lime-ish) green door which stood small and thin at the end of the corridor. Molly was forced to duck down to enter the narrow entry way beyond which was a set of crooked stairs led up a narrow passage. Dimly lit by candles spelled to light when someone was near (the spell work had been cheaply done as the lights would sometimes flicker and then die for a while), the hall had a menacing appearance. This did not halt Molly though, she quickly, yet quietly (her oldest twin's room was near by, and she could not afford to waste time by putting them back to bed) ascended the stairs, following the twisting path and continuing on past the small landing which held the door to the third floor. When she reached the last step, she paused to catch her breath. While Molly would admit she was no Narcisssa Malfoy, she was not unfit (having seven boys demanded an elite level of fitness that some athletes could not even comprehend), but those stairs could reduce even the top Auror to a puddle of sweat. It must have been the sheer difference in each step, as each was different in height, width and direction and for some amount of time one finds themselves going _down_ instead of up (to Septimus' Weasley's great pleasure – it was he who built it.) But it was the fastest (and only) way to reach the double doors – squished into a frame meant only for one – that lead to the master bedroom.

Molly entered with only a little resistance from the delinquent doors and rushed straight towards the wardrobe, yanked open the doors and smashing the shoes placed symmetrically on the bottom of the wardrobe to the floor with one wide sweep of her arms. With a grunt she pulled the false bottom out of the closet and released it some where behind her, too busy hauling a large, heavy sack out of the newly revealed hollow bottom to even hear it clunk against the ground. Briefly giving the sacks contents a once over, Molly smiled grimly.

--

_The serpentine…creature- because he was no longer a man – stood cackling amidst the chaos, alternating between shouting at his Death Eaters and the bearded man across the field. His words never quite reaching the old man, lost to the wind. Silver and green threads burst from his wand, truly symbolising what he was part of, what he __**was**__, what people were to fear and prosecute._

_Across the battle field, Albus Dumbledore schooled himself for what he was about to do, for the hypocritical action he was about to commit. Knowing it could not be achieved by he – __**only if you let destiny control you **__– he was to resort to what he deemed dark, corrupt, he was – __**it does no one any good to dwell upon this matter, Wulfric, they are counting on you, they **_**need**_** you to do this**__ – _

_Dumbledore raised his wand and closed his eyes. Reaching inward to draw upon the legendary power all spoke of, but few remain of who have actually __**seen**__ it, Dumbledore mentally let his Occlumency shields fall, and allowed his emotions to run rampant with in his body. _

'_**You have to do this Wulfric…'**_

_Albus felt the magic and emotion gather and rush to the end of his wand – no, the Elder wand – and he spoke those two condemning words –_

"_**Avada Kedavra."**_

--

Molly stood outside Bill's room; surely he was old enough to look after the others… she quietly shuffled into the room, steeping over the various toys that littered the floor with a mothers grace.

"Bill, Bill darling. Wake up, sweetheart."

The boy padded up it multiple patched quilts and faded blankets blinked sleepily up at his mother.

"Wha?"

Molly smiled down at him, a small smile that somehow still reached her eyes. "Just take care of your brothers Bill. Should anything happen, floo Grandpa, 'kay?"

The lazy – and confused – nod was all she needed before she apparated away.

--

– _and it left him, the emotion, the magic and behind closed eyelids, Albus saw a flash of green light._

_His eyes snapped open. _

…_and watched as the green light soared across the battle field, finally revealing the ground with its sickly light, so that, even as far away as Albus was, he could see Tom's eyes widen…or maybe it was merely his imagination…_

_Albus Dumbledore watched as the light, so green – bottle, emerald, pea, a mixture of all three – swallowed the boy once known as Tom Riddle…it consumed the self proclaimed Lord Voldemort…and then Lord Slytherin was no more. _

--

An old and worn diary that was surprisingly blank started to smoke, thick fumes of green fog fanned up from the book and filled the Malfoy vault…then abruptly faded to a white smog and dissolved it to the air, leaving nothing but a foul smell of rotting onions, garlic and too fresh toadstools behind.

--

Hidden in the ruins of an old shabby two room house, sparks leaped off of the golden band of a clumsily made ring. First, just a few, then a whole wave of different colours started to jump forth from the ring. The black stone in the center started to sizzle and liquefy, pouring out of the band in a thick, black goop, small pieces of solid stone floating around in the inky mess.

--

In a small, locked box in a warded and bespelled cabinet in the depths of Grimmauld Place, a golden locket decorated with an ordinate 'S' cracked. Black burn marks spread out from the crack, until they were covering the whole locket. It would not be until months later, when Kreacher once again went to try and destroy the locket, that it would turn to ash at first touch.

--

In the back of the Lestrange vault, at Gringotts, Diagon Alley Division, a small golden cup started to melt. Quickly liquefying it then spread onto the other contents of the vault, swallowing priceless dark artefacts until it cooled, hours later.

--

In the Room of Requirement, in the Room of Lost Things, a tiara, with the inscription '_Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure,_' started to shrink. It bent as it under some immense pressure, a high pitched metal on metal noise screeched through the room, making the stuffed troll wince. This continued until the tiara, once worn by Rowena Ravenclaw herself, was no more than an oddly bent and twisted piece of iron no larger than the palm of a first year.

--

In the Department of Mysteries, in the Hall of Prophesises, a round crystal ball, seemingly filled with fog, shattered. It was a phenomenon that was studied by Unspeakables for months, and when word reached back to Dumbledore about the event, the old man smiled grimly.

_**TBC…**_

Sorry this update took so long, I had a lot of things come up that prevented me from typing this up, but alas, here it is…


	3. An Immence Mess

Family Ties

By** Chibi Tears of Pain**

"Where do you need me, Poppy?"

The medi-witch looked up, and Molly could not help grimacing in sympathy for the hassled healer. Greying hair had slipped out of its normally loose, but effective bun until most of it draped down her neck, sticking to it with sweat. There were large shadows under her blood shot eyes and her eyelids were drooping – a sign of lack of sleep and exhaustion; she had been working non-stop probably the entire night. Poppy Pomfrey's once pristine white apron was covered in… many things which Molly could not identify and sagged against the figure it had once snugly fit.

'_It seems the war has affected us all…'_

"Well?" Molly prompted, startling Poppy out of her confused daze, "What do you need help with?"

Poppy sighed and Molly felt a sense of foreboding well within her gut as the healer wearily shook her head.

"It doesn't matter where you help out Molly, everyone needs it – this place it total chaos, everywhere there's someone who thinks they're the next minister, ready to lead the Wizarding people out of tragedy, and they try to organise others into groups to do _this_ and groups to do _that_ which ends up contradicting the previous ego-bloated _asshole_ who tried to do the same thing – and yet none of them ever think to assign people to the _hospital!_" Her voice had deepened as it descended into a rant, hitting a shrill note every now and again that made Molly wince. Pausing at the end, she took a few calming breaths, forceful at first, then they came more naturally; her righteous anger was gone, leaving only a weary and exhausted school nurse. "The healers from Saint Mungo's Floo'd in some time ago and even then it was only half the staff – You-Know-Who had orchestrated multiple attacks last night and injured are pouring in over there by the dozens."

Molly watched as the tired woman turned her back to her and waddle-limped towards the nearest bed with a man who was just waking up, only to find that when he moved, he was missing one arm and merely had a stump for the other.

As Molly watched Poppy try and calm the now panicking man, she started to breath in deeply – she needed the air because it was as if some thing had been sharply and painfully torn out of her chest and her lungs felt the need to make up for the missing space. Then as she smelt the air – the smell of old blood and musky bed sheets assaulted her nose and her ribs then felt as if they were trying to squeeze all those 'needed' breaths back out - to get rid of the awful stench which permeated through the air.

She had headed here to the ever organised – yet not today, it would seem – witch so she would be able to do something constructive to help. If there was ever an action that Molly hated more than that which displays superiority is that which is useless – because if you're not helping clean up, then you're just adding to the mess.

She found herself think rapidly of the place that had the most wounded as she spun sharply on her heels, the place she could be of most assistance, a place where her contribution could truly change something…

And Molly strode out of the Hospital Wing, trying not to look up - if she did she would see someone who she could help and she would then – she wished there was a better word – _waste_ time helping them when there were others in more life threatening situations. She was useless here.

And if there was one thing Molly hated it was feeling useless.

--

"Molly! Molly?! Boys?! Is anybody ho-"

"Dad!"

Quite suddenly Arthur found himself sitting on the welcome rug with a lapful of Percy (who could out run his brothers if need be) and the trample of booted Erumpents was rapidly closing in on them both. Looking up from the four-year-old in his lap, he took in the clearly relieved expressions of his two oldest children, and then blinked.

"What are you _wearing_?"

Dressed in a worn, wrinkled and obviously still damp bath towel, Bill blushed scarlet; his face tried to blend into his hair but only managed to clash with the lilac and peach striped waistcoat that looked as if it would fit Hagrid, though the design screamed Dumbledore. Then, to top it all, on his feet were Arthur's oversized and paint-stained Wellies, which he had been pretty sure he had lost to the pond mud not a month before.

There was the squeak of wet rubber bottomed shoes on dry wooden floors.

Transferring his gaze to a sheepish looking Charlie, Arthur felt like his eyebrows would threaten to rip skin should they attempt to rise any higher.

'_Ah…so __**those**__ were the boots lost to the mud.'_

It seemed that Charlie was dressed even more outlandish than his brother. A pink woollen muffler (which he had given Molly back in seventh year) was rapped around his head like a turban, and …_ oh Merlin, please don't tell me that's Molly's dressing gown – _but it was. The fluffy sky coloured material was secured with a single – '_no … not my duck tie' _– piece of fabric tied at his waist. The dressing gown was bunched at his shoulders from him trying to pull on his own – '_thank Merlin'_ - rain jacket. In all, he was quite a sight to behold – the bright pink turban occasionally snuggled its self to Charlie's head, clashing horribly with his still bed matted hair, then there was what looked like the most uncomfortable jacket combination – Arthur dazedly watched cloud wander though the bunched cloth at the boys shoulder – that led to bare, skinny legs (implying Charlie didn't have anything on underneath) which were swallowed up by mud covered boots. Arthur's tie 'quacked' at him.

Looking down at his lap Arthur was comforted to see that Percy, while wearing his dungarees inside out and over his night shirt, was still relatively civilized.

"Just _what _have you boys been up to?!"

"Well, you see…" Only Bill never got to finish, because at that moment there was a loud metallic '_clang' _that resounded through the house.

--

The sun, having sensed the violence was over, crept out from behind the clouds, its light danced over Hogwarts Castle and grounds; a sweet caress of joy and relief.

Hogwarts was masterfully built; its position and rooms perfectly placed. Some rooms were placed under certain constellations, and there is a room that always changes position so that it faces the incoming wind. Some rooms correspond to the earth, but these are all on a sub-basement level that has lost since 1602. The room that was compatible to the lake was turned into the Slytherin Common Room, and there is only one person who might know where the old dorms are located; he just killed the only person who could access them. There is no Room of Fire, because a wooden room that was always on fire was too dangerous to keep in a school, no matter how many safety charms, so feeling slighted, Godric Gryffindor built the Room of Requirement.

But the most masterly and undisputed beautiful architectural feat was the stain glass windows at the end of the great hall. They look out over the coast and when the sun rises and hits the water it reflects onto the stain glass, and the great hall glows. All shades of red, blue, green and yellow flow through the room, bathing everything in a shower of colours.

But not even the light could redeem such an ugly sight that greeted Molly when she ploughed into the hall.

--

Arthur ran into the sitting room, the boys hot on his heals. When he stopped dead, Charlie and Bill barley had time to move to stand at his sides, leaving Percy to run straight into his father's knees. Arthur barley moved from the collision, he stood stone still as he viewed the living room.

Bill decided it was time to try and salvage the situation.

"Well, you see… this day needed celebratin' and there's no better way to celebrate than the circus…" He trailed off when Arthur gave no signs of having heard.

The awkward silence continued until Arthur numbly broke it.

"…a circus?..." he ventured blindly.

This was all the encouragement Charlie needed as he began to excitedly go over their 'celebration.' "Yup! We were just feedin' Fred and George when the wireless said it was a day to be celebratin' and that You-Know ain't here no more and so last time something big happened you tooked us to the muggle circus and so this time the muggle circus came to us!"

"…is that right?" Arthur was obviously still over whelmed, he felt as if he was missing something very important that happened, and so he prompted his sons to reveal such a secret.

Taking his frozen expression as a sign he was not mad, Charlie continued. "Of course! So first we needed a magician, and that's me, and Percy is my assistant. Then we needed clowns – cause you can't have a circus without clowns, so we made Fred and George be 'em!"

Looking at the lipstick covered faces of his eldest twins who were sitting on the couch, Arthur had to agree; they had certainly made them clowns. "…And the pots?" He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

"Well, we needed a drum role for the lion tamer – that's Bill, by the way – and I couldn't do it 'cause I have to introduce him and Percy is too unin-uninpertantit, well he just wasn't right for the job so we made the twins do it." And as if to prove this, one of them started to smack the bottom of Molly's favourite cast iron pot while the other –having thrown his on the floor – looked on jealously.

--

Rows of bodies ran down the entire hall. Some were placed delicately, their limbs arranged with care – they looked as if they were sleeping peacefully. The others were strewn about as if the were roughly thrown, at interval there were two or three bodies piled on top of each other. The air was heavy – suffocating the living with the fumes of rotting flesh and still blood. And in between two rows that were the estimated center of the room was a small crowd.

'_Merlin, Poppy was right,'_ was Molly's only thought as she viewed the chambers occupants.

There was a portly little man standing in the center of a crowd of at least sixteen self-important looking people. He was wearing a too large, yellow and red pinstriped night shirt that was sloppily held on him by a tightly buckled brown leather belt, one that threatened to give way every time the man wildly waved his arms to emphasize a point he loudly ranting upon. There was a scarlet tie around his neck - it was untied but wrinkled, as if some had tried repeatedly, and failed, to correctly tie the Windsor knot. His red face was rapidly approaching a shade of purple, but he continued to talk – or loudly spew – to the men around him.

"- and I want McGonway to gather up the people here and take them to the ministry. There is a Wizengamot meeting scheduled for three today and I refuse to let it pass unattended. Now there are serious repairs needed to council room five – that's where we'll have it held," he held his hand up in a placating motion towards his small crowd, "I know it's small and not up to the calibre of room sixteen, but we all have to make sacrifices in the immediate aftermath of the war. Now, since McGonway will be at the ministry doing repairs, Michaels, I want you to start owling the Wizengamot members – Amberstein will give you a list of all the regular attendee's and the agenda of today's session…" And as the little man spoke, his crowd nodded as if in awe and this gave the man more confidence, making his movements more exaggerated and full of enthusiasm. In his excitement, he made a large gesture that encompassed both this arms and made them follow a complex movement that threatened to topple him over. To regain his balance he took a step back, and when he placed his foot down there was a nauseating crack, quiet, but somehow it echoing through the Great hall, churning stomachs and abruptly silencing the man. It was also the sound that sealed his fate, something he didn't realise, yet such ignorance could not stop the sense of apprehension that rang through his body – something that all men felt when they saw a red faced Molly Weasley charging towards them.

--

Arthur sighed as he tried, in vain, to wipe the last of the lipstick off one of the older twins. It was hopeless, cheap as the brand maybe, it was long lasting and durable – perfect for a mother of five boys, Molly had said – and to top things off, there had been a lot put on. He pulled the boy out of the bath tub, careful to not drip any water on himself despite the child's attempts otherwise – it was a move that was fluid with the ease of much experience. Placing the boy – who he suspected was Fred – on a changing table, he went to collect George out of the tub. Both he and Molly had learned early on that the boys did not like to be separated by so much as a wall – the punishment for attempting such a separation be bleeding from the ear (while one can not yell that loud, combined they can make a screech that even the Diggory's would be able to hear, as far away as they were).

And so, washed and dressed (properly) he carried the twins into the kitchen (walking down those demanding stairs took awhile with the fussing toddlers) were he was greeted by a suitably dressed Bill and Charlie, both busy eating a sandwich, which, according to the mess of knives, jars and plates on the counters, was a mixture of peanut butter, honey, cheese and … pickles?

Arthur decided it was better if he did not ask…or wonder…or even - he cringed as Bill took a large mouth filling bite out of the…concoction – observe.

Right then, both Fred and George were given spoons and bowls of yogurt – their favourite food of the week. Percy was eating a bowl of cereal, and both Ronald and Rowland were set up with a bottle of milk. In all Arthur believed he did alright – all the boys were alive, dressed and fed.

Yet there was no Molly.

He had rushed home after battling through one of the smaller skirmishes that had taken hold of Diagon Alley – the old Weasley luck pulling him through with barley a scratch – only to find that Hogwarts had been attacked, You-Know-Who vanquished, and his wife – he strongly suspected – had gone to help 'clean-up' the remains.

She never could stand disarray, he thought pitifully as he trained his eyes onto the counter. Might as well get crackin' then, and Arthur tiredly got up to start on the chaos that had taken the kitchen counter hostage.­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

_**TBC…**_


	4. The Wrath of Molly

Family Ties

By** Chibi Tears of Pain**

"You – Your – YOU dare try and further your political agenda at a time like THIS!"

By now Molly was towering over Cornelius Fudge; her bag lay forgotten where she dropped it, her anger at the little man so over whelming she lost thought of her surroundings, and never stopped to consider who she was talking to – this is something that she would always doubt if she actually regretted it or not.

She could feel the blood rushing to her face - something that always happen when she was angry – yet despite this livid blush, she continued to look at Fudge the same way she would had he been Bill, or Charlie, or any one of her boys and pulled this stunt – only there was no motherly affection in her gaze, and that made the accumulating crowd hurry back, tripping over and bumping into each other, trying to avoid her fury by putting measly few steps in between them.

Molly Weasley was a stubborn woman and she was tall, but Cornelius refused to let her cow him – the up coming politian that he was, he needed all the influence that he could get and by leading in a crisis such as this is an opportunity to gain the people's approval and admiration. The Ministry needed to be up and running right away, so why this woman would object to such actions – that were needed mind you- was beyond him. He looked up at her suspiciously; maybe she supported the other party…

Cornelius' mind was finally able to take in the woman's look and deduce who – or _what_ – she was. He would let no _house wife_ order him around, and so, adopting his most respectable voice and innocent eyes and charming smile, he tried to mend the collateral damage that had been done.

"Now ma'm, I believe it is my duty, to the people, to do what I believe is best for them and at this moment, in a situation like this, the people need security – security that can only be offered by Ministry organisation. To do that we need the Wizengamot together to organise such chaos and decide the steps that would best benefit the people. The sooner this is done, the sooner we can go back to living our lives like we did before the war." He looked up at her, as if trying to get his point across to her through a single, sympathetic look.

This speech had renewed some of his crowds courage and faith in the man, making them step forward, patronising smiles on their faces directed towards Molly; compassionate as she may be, the woman just didn't understand what needed taking care of, despite her good intentions.

Poor old Cornelius Oswald Fudge believed motherhood made a woman softer and more prone to benevolence and kind-heartedness – to bad no one ever corrected this assumption of his. Molly, having been given every puppy dog look, charming smile and innocent air worn, was immune to such manners. She also loathed being patronized. The little man was being incompetent and worse – a quick glance to the others confirmed her worry – that incompetence was spreading and ensnaring others into is colossal web of worthlessness and inadequacy. It was at this moment that Molly decided she did not _**like**_ the little man. It was also the moment she decided that she had found the 'mess' she was going to try and 'cleanup.'

--

A bony, wrinkled hand skimmed the polished surface of the clawed monstrosity Dumbledore called a desk. Scattering papers everywhere, his hand was barely able to catch the side before his legs failed him and he lost his balance.

From his perch, Fawkes crooned in worry, his feathers flaming intensely as he watched the aged man stumble through his office.

Albus gave the bird a weary smile, "Don't worry old friend, I am merely tired. Us old people get that way every now and again you know." Yet his reassurance did not do away with the incredulous gaze the bird continued to direct at him.

Albus steadied himself on treacherous legs, finally feeling secure enough, he let go of the desk and shakily turned to face the Phoenix.

"You see old friend, nothing to worry about –" and he was falling; the parchment covered floor was levelling out and flying forward, and he knew that what little paper covered the floor would do him little good upon impact with such forbidding stone. There was an outraged squawk and Albus, in the moment before he hit the marble, was able to agree with his fiery feathered friend – "_Yes Albus, you stupid __**idiot**__…!"_

Bare feet slapped the marble floor and there was a quivering, yet sturdy hand on his arm, just stopping his face from crashing into the obstinate ground. Lifting his head up, his chin just skinning the floor, Albus looked in to phantom brown eyes, dulled as they relived the ghost hidden within, even then. He offered a heart-rending and mournful smile for the man that came across as slightly bitter and sardonic.

"Why James, I believe you look even worse than I do."

--

Poppy looked up at the winded face of the young man you had come rushing into the hospital wing. She would have frowned had the boy not looked as if he had just out run a heard of Quintaped's to get there.

She instead decided to give him a stern look, as if it could force the honest truth from his lips.

Apparently, it could.

"Really ma'm, I'm just here to h-help," the boy actually _cringed_ at her unconvinced stare, "H-honest mum, I was sent to tell you that more were coming as well, then help out were I could, you see all those who had a bit of healin' or even first aid experience were rounded up like escaped Nifflers in the halls of Gringotts!" Here Poppy felt the corners of the lips twitch – the boy sounded so indigent. "The others are headin' this way now, I was sent ahead – and we dare not dally, you know."

"And why do you 'dare not dally' Mr…?" She couldn't help it, there was a bemused smile dancing across her face and it had been so _long_ since she last felt this amused; it was worth the boys annoyed expression.

"Amberstein. And we don't dally 'cause that red headed _fiend _would do to us what she did to Fudge!" He was obviously still miffed at the 'red headed fiend.'

"'Red headed fiend,' Mr. Amberstein?" The boy had enough decorum to blush at his repeated wording. His next answer lacked the heat that his earlier replies had encased.

"Mrs. Weasley, ma'm. No offense meant, but she's a right demon when she wants to be. Charged right up to Fudge and I swear she twisted his ear right off while she dragged him to that cupboard…said he could come out once he got over his 'childish, self indulged fantasies and started to inhabit realty like the rest of us decent folks.'"

She felt it well in the bottom of her throat; such a foreign feeling. It started to escape as a few chuckles that ended in snorts, then, as it rose, she was forced to through her head back and let out a loud guffaw, making the few hospital helpers in the wing, plus the cross boy in front of her, jump. But such a reaction did not faze her, she let her laughter roll across the filled to the brim Hospital Wing, lightening the sixty-two ton burden which she had been carrying since the first dozen patient's had started to trickle in. And as the tears streaked down her face, she felt that things were finally starting to right themselves, trust Molly Weasley to give them a push in the right direction.

Looking back at the boy, who was now staring at her like she belonged in Ward 49 of St. Mungo's, she quickly changed her demeanour from a slightly hysterical old witch to a stern and proper hospital matron, before barking out orders at the growing crowd of "volunteers" that had ambled in through the doors.

"Well, what are you lot looking at, hmmm?" she addressed the group of thirty-two-ish temporary medics. "We've got work to do. Now I want all those who have some actual experience in first aid to group over here…"

Molly had given Poppy her "help," now all she had to do is use them to there fullest potential and things might actually get down around the hospital – and all efforts might not just be in vain. She'd let Molly handle the political fires and bruised ego's that consumed the rest of Hogwarts – she ran the infirmary, and in there, her word was akin to Merlin's.

--

Albus suffered the humility of having to be placed in his particularly high backed Headmasters chair by a weakened man, with the grace of a saint, and the Headmasters portraits wisely stayed quite.

Dumbledore raised an unsteady hand out towards the visitors chair slightly off to the right of his desk, a silent invitation for his guest to sit, and the man sank gratefully into the fluffily engulfing seat.

An exhausted silence befell the office. Dumbledore stared jadedly out the east window at the mountains that valiantly protect Hogwarts – but not with out contemplating how utterly they failed.

James stared at one of Dumbledore's silvery gadgets, faintly recognising it from a description in the newly published Quibbler as a Quansheblaque – something that tracked Mooncalf herds. He spent the rest of the silence mulling over the magic involved to make it actually did so.

"I did not see you in the ranks of the Order during battle." It was a statement that demanded an answer.

"No, you did not." Too bad James didn't want to give him one.

Dumbledore sighed and they once again descended into silence. What was left unsaid and what was to be spoken airily floated through the room.

"You look like shit." This time James spoke, and his statement was simply that; a statement.

"You don't to well yourself, my boy." Again with the question disguised in a statement – Dumbledore was really good at those, James didn't think he had actually asked outright for anything in his life.

"It's been a shity week." Dumbledore raised an eyebrow and James felt like he was no better than a squabbling third year Hufflepuff.

"Fine, it's been a bad month." The silence continued.

"Oh, alright. My year hasn't exactly been roses and daises, happy?" Briefly meeting the younger mans tormented eyes, Dumbledore gave an empathetic nod.

"I had one of those myself, I believe. Started in the summer of 1955, there was –" He broke off here with a chuckle "well, lets just say, by the time everything had drawn its course; I was missing 86 pairs of my favourite socks, and raking up a massive debt of a few hundred thousand galleons."

James gave a chuckle of his own – bitter and full of contempt. "Did your bad year happen to place you in Azkaban?"

The grandfatherly smile that was forming on Albus' face froze, and his voice was rather subdued and tired. "No, but during my stay at St, Mungo's, I swore the nurses had turned into Dementors and the bed pan's into flesh eating slugs."

Once again there was silence.

"James, what happened?"

All the younger man could do was give Dumbledore a small smile that was insincere as a widowers in-law, "Well, you know, all this could, technically, be blamed on you…"

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­--

Molly watched the group scurry off in approval; things were finally getting done around here. Now was the time to clean up; all other things could wait –

"Frank Longbottom!"

The man stopped, his shoulders huntched in guilt.

"Just what are you doing here?!"

"They needed all the help they could get Molly, and when I joined the –" He was violently (and quite loudly) cut off.

"Your _wife_ is in the hospital having _your_ _child_! Are you so heartless as to miss _that?!"_

"No, of course not! It was Alice who insisted that I helped out here –" He could not even breath out a sentence before his arm was caught in an iron grip and he was being led to the semi-portable floo that was set up to take patients in critical condition to St. Mungo's.

He was roughly pushed towards the hearth. "And don't you dare come back until you've spent at _least_ three days with your _child_!"

Molly watched as the man floo'd to the hospital before turning on the gaggle of able bodied people in the corner, _honestly standing around at a time like this?_...

There was much to be done. Dead bodies that still needed to be moved and injured that had still not been taken to the infirmary. Those that had not been injured were divided. Many were sent to the hospital wing, those that were younger and had iron stomachs collected the rest of the dead, placing them in the great hall where they were then identified and their names were recorded.

Watching the group scuttle away with haste after her harsh (because _someone_ has to be) reprimand, Molly sighed, as she had never felt a stronger urge to be at home with her children and away from this mess.

But her children were strong and (as much as she hated to admit it) could survive – for now – with out her. Watching a pompous faced boy turn to his companions, his expression vexed and his hands loosening and causing the head of an unconscious – or so she hoped – man to hit the ground, she descended on him in hurried fury. With Professor Dumbledore missing, it was oblivious her direction was needed here.

**_TBC…_**


	5. And Life Goes On

Family Ties

By** Chibi Tears of Pain**

"An Outrage! She dare?! Against a known member of the Wizengot?! She – she – While I shall see that she pays dearly for this! It was a time of need for the Wizarding World and she locked me in a – a – in a _cupboard_?! Mark my words, she shall rue the day that see ever set eyes on-"

"Cornelius."

The little man spun around, his tirade falling silent when the sedate, but still concrete, voice interrupted him.

Upon the raised dais in the hall stood Albus Dumbledore in all his heroic glory. Many of the people standing around Fudge gaped in awe at the man who had defeated two Dark Lords.

"At last, Dumbledore! Just the man I wanted to see" and the politian scrambled over to the old man with surprising speed, sensing a political advantage caused him to travel outside the realm of muggle physics.

"You can once more come to are rescue. There is a woman loose around Hogwarts, and I swear she has an agenda that will cause our immediate descent into chaos – we are teetering on the edge as is, you know! Her threats and mismanagement has caused the entire castle to turn itself inside out, and you know how interlinked the Wizarding World is to Hogwarts, there has been nothing but pandemonium since she – she placed such a tyranny on us!"

Dumbledore smile placidly down at Cornelius. "I'm sure that Molly is doing a fine job running things." His tone was both evasive and confrontational and no matter how exhausted he seemed, Albus would not allow himself to fall victim to Fudge's manipulations – as evident as they were, he would not be able to think as well of himself should he fall for such an foreseeable ambush.

Besides, he liked to see Cornelius flounder.

He started forward, his stride confident and unhurried, when all he really wanted was to put on his warmest (and coincidently most outrageously colourful) pair of socks and excuse himself to a nice long nap, but people rarely get their whimsical wants at war time – or even in the immediate aftermath.

Fudge stood dumbstruck for a moment, before collecting himself and rushing after the Headmaster. "Bu-but, sir, clearly you can see that some one from the Ministry, or even some one with exceptional leadership qualities much like yourself, would have been a better candidate…"

Dumbledore continued on, pretending to be unaware of Fudge's difficulty in keeping up. But while he was steadily traveling the halls of his school, he found distinct compulsion to come to Molly Weasley's defence.

"I wouldn't be so sure of that Cornelius; many would say that being the mother of five rambunctious boys would provide any woman with the…qualities needed to handle such a strenuous situation." A sweet smile, mirroring that of six year olds covered the mirth he felt at the little mans appalled expression.

"Surely though, you see she must be removed, you had pointed out your self that she is merely a housewife, perhaps s-she sshhould be –" Cornelius had fallen behind Dumbledore's quick pace, bending at the waist and leaning on his knees, he continued to wheeze out his sentence. "Be –be –she should be re-pl-hay-sssed byhuh someone – someone" he broke off to swallow, relieving those around of his hoarse whine, "by someone who – who has had more, huh, experience with dealing with this, this-huh, kind of re-responsibility."

Albus Dumbledore had stopped at the end of the hall, his back still facing Fudge.

"On that, Cornelius, I will agree with you." And with a repressed sigh, Albus carried on, his shoulders starting to sag from the added weight.

--

Molly stood a few feet past the doors in the Great Hall, solemnly looking over the dead. In the row closest to the west wall two men stood over the body of a girl that had attended Hogwarts, sixth year, Molly guessed. Three bodies down the second row to the east stood a woman and a boy – no more than fourth year – she cried out her anguish in a beastly wail, her hands clasping the jacket of a dead man whose face had been blasted off, revealing a skull that was speckled with small patches of rotting skin. The boy shakily held the woman by her shoulders; as if he let her go she too would fall and join his father as a rotting corpse.

"Molly." The gentle voice and hesitant hand laid on her shoulder startled her out of her daze. She looked up into the sympathetic eyes of Albus Dumbledore.

"That is enough Molly," he said, his voice barely caring over the howling woman.

She stared at him in faint confusion and, for reasons beyond her grasp, relief.

He smiled at her, a faint, but true smile.

"You've done an excellent job here Molly, but I'm afraid what mischief your children have released in your absence." His smile widened at the possibilities.

Molly too was thinking of all the trouble that her little ones would have gotten into by now, and her with eyes widening at every imaginary transgression, the more physically endowed of Fudge's supporters (who were actually able to keep up with Albus) that had tagged along on Albus' trip to the Great Hall believed that they would actually fall out.

Albus chuckled as Molly hastily excused her self and raced towards the floo – Molly truly was an outstanding witch with exceptional leadership qualities, and a will of iron, but she was always – _always_ a mother first.

His thoughts took a more sombre direction as he viewed the Great Hall. Molly could have joined the aurors and become an admirable leader, but she chose to be a mother. Albus, when faced with the choice of a domestic life, had turned the other way. It was his decision, and one he had to and will continue to live with – and until his burden became too much, he would carry as much weight as his aged body would allow.

--

Molly stumbled out of the floo, her arms flying out to steady herself, knocking a dark shadow back where it clattered to the floor, taking a side table and nearby lamp with it.

And immediately her wand was out, pointing towards the man lying on her sitting room floor.

"Mollywobbles! Molly! Please, please, put the wand away."

Molly blinked at the uncomfortable figure of her husband, and then found her self falling across the space between them. She was caught in the bony, yet soothing arms of her husband. It lasted all of three seconds before she roughly wrenched herself away from him, a sound scolding leaving her lips before anything else.

Yet in the middle of such a forceful speech she cut her self off, and both she and Arthur looked at each, stuck in a stupor. She lowered the hand that was pointing at him and straightened her back – she had leaned forward to perform a well practiced jabbing motion – the hand she had balled at her hip fell loose to her side.

How long had it been since she was last on his case? Both of them were important to the Order and she never knew if the last words she would say to him were to berate him for something he (probably) didn't do – so she kept quiet about such things. But to fall into past habits so quickly…

There was a creak from the kitchen and from where they stood they could see the door sway from a particularly strong breeze – it had not been secured in place.

"You didn't lock the door?" She was suppose to sound demanding, but Molly found was to preoccupied fighting the urge to scurry over to the door and lock the rest of the world out of their house to put any real weight behind her words.

Arthur looked as baffled as her. "I…I was sure I did…I usually do..." He turned his head to her, his voice almost pleading. "But the war's over, right? It didn't – _doesn't _need to be locked, so there was no need, I mean, it's over, it's finally _**over**_…"

Faintly, Molly came to the same realisation as he did. "Yes, I guess it is over."

The war was over, and while there was still so much to do – rebuilding mostly – there was thing they could finally _not_ do and things that they haven't done in so long and –

Life goes on.

--

**May 16th 1980 - 6:39 PM**

"_Excuse me?" She looked up at him, before immediately snapping her head back to the paperwork piled below her hunched figure. "Toilet's down the east hall, three doors to the right."_

"_That's really not what I came here for…"_

_She deliberately slowed her motions, making sure her papers were symmetrical to the edge of her desk and her pen perfectly diagonal in the center of the page before looking up at him. Her smile was plastered on like the poor quality paint that coated the cement walls of the maternity ward – deceiving no one but herself by dawning such a cheerful persona. _

_He took her silence as a prompt for him to speak._

"_I'm looking for a woman."_

_The smile starts to peel at the corners, only to be forcefully drawn back, making her face look even more the imitation of saintly benevolence._

"_And __**who**__ might you be looking for?" It was suppose to be a gentle inquiry, but it rang too high an octave to be anything but mocking._

_Such was not lost to the man, nevertheless he smiled (albeit rather sheepishly). _

"_Sorry, I'm looking for a woman named Lily – Lily Evans." _

_**TBC...**_


	6. A Broken Boy

Family Ties

Family Ties

By** Chibi Tears of Pain**

**November 30****th**** 1980**

Two hunched figures sat at a crooked wooden table in a crowded kitchen. The figures were scarcely illuminated, as the only light was provided by the sputtering candles that were placed in the cramped corners of the room. Their voices were low, barley a murmur escaping for the two little boys standing on the other side of the door to hear.

"Your–you're WHAT?!"

The boys jumped at their fathers raised voice, and scurried closer to the crack that allowed their mothers forceful shushing through.

In the kitchen Molly stared touchily at her husband. _Really, it was just like him to react this way, it not as if the blame could be placed solely on __**her!**_

"But I thought – I thought" he spared one glance to the listening door before continuing on in a low whisper, "I thought we decided to stop after Ron – I mean Rowland, we decided to _stop_ after Rowland."

Molly rolled her eyes at her husband, exasperation clearly shown as she agitatedly pushed her chair back and headed to wards the sink.

"It's not like we meant for it to happen, we should have been more careful. I mean eight children Arthur. Eight! We're having trouble with seven, but to add another…"

He came up behind her as she angrily attacked the dirtied dishes. Wrapping his arms around her shoulders he automatically offered heartening words that sounded hollow to his own ears.

"Come on now Molly, what's one more? We'll manage, we always do."

"But –"

"We _will_ manage Molly; it will just take some extra work…"

Her slumped shoulders were enough to tell Arthur that the topic was settled.

Outside the kitchen two little boys stared stunned at each other.

"Do you know what this means Charlie?" Bill's voice was quiet, somewhat shocked at what they had heard.

"Yeah!" his enthusiasm forced the whisper to imitate a shout as his face lit up with glee, "It means we're gonna get another BROTHER!"

The stamping of feet toward the door signified their parents having heard his joy (and the shout it caused). It was now that the boys decided that it was time to disappear, and they hurried down the hall to their respective rooms.

--

**May 5****th**** 1981**

"Bet you anything it's a boy."

Bill looked up at Charlie, ignoring one of the twins attempt at getting his attention by beating him with his small fists.

They sat on the floor, Bill was leaning against the couch with Fred (…at least that's who he thought it was, but he could never really tell…) in his lap as he valiantly tried to read the squirming toddler a story. Charlie sat a few feet way in front of a large pile of blocks with George.

"Now really, what _ever_ made you think that?" Bill rolled his before readjusting Fred on his lap, stopping the boys escape.

Charlie scowled at his brother. "Well…I don't know, maybe it was the cards congratulating Mum on _another_ boy… I mean really, the kid hasn't even popped out yet and –"

"Everybody knows that the Weasley family hasn't had a girl since … well, we've never met her, in anycase."

"You know, maybe this time it'll be different…" Charlie's voice was unsure; he didn't believe it anymore than, well, nobody believe Weasley number eight was a girl.

"Honestly Charlie, that has the same chance of happening as, well," he stopped to think, his bottom lip drawing into his mouth as he thoughtfully gnawed on it. Then he smirked playfully at his brother and finished his thought aloud. "It has the same chance of happening as that coward Potter becoming Minister."

Charlie smirked back at Bill, and soon they were both encompassed in a fit of giggles.

"C'mon Bill, didn't you know, Percy'll be the next Minister of Magic!" His voice was shrill as he tried to keep his laughter contained.

"Really now…"

But Bill never got to finish as he was cut off loudly, and rather rudely, by a deep, resonating snore from said 'next minister of magic,' who had fallen asleep on the couch behind him.

This had both boys laughing once more until Fred decided he had enough, giving Bill's hair a sharp yank and George started to throw blocks.

--

**August 11****th**** 1981**

It was their fathers shocked demeanour when he came out to get them that set them on edge, honestly, you'd think he would get use to it after seven – no _eight_ kids.

Bill's steps were smaller than usual, and Charlie was shuffling behind him, his feet annoyingly brushing the tiled floor with every step he took. Percy had one hand firmly attached to Charlie's shirt; the other was sacrificing his thumb to his ever nibbling teeth. They could all feel something was desperately _wrong._

Inside the room was perfectly normal – in fact the whole pregnancy had been perfectly normal; the baby was not breech like Charlie or premature like Percy or way too late like Ronald and Rowland. It was not an extremely long labour like with Fred and George and she went with the Xavier's PREP (Potion for Relieving Extreme labour Pains) each time after having Bill….but something was still off.

The newest Weasley male lay in a crib in the right of the room, covered by the large, fluffy Weasley blanket that had been used by at least once by all of the Weasley boys. It was thinning, but that was perfect for the August heat and it was an ugly greyish white – having been washed and bleached so many times made it lose its bright blue colouring.

And as they stared at him, the sense of wrongness intensified.

Bill and Charlie made their way to their mum, who was talking excitedly to Arthur (who had followed them back into the room) in hushed tones. Charlie climbed onto the bed and wedged himself into her lap, while Bill, having just received his Hogwarts letter, maturely sat on the edge of the mattress… then promptly shimmied over to his mother's side.

Molly smiled at her eldest's antics, and was about to comment (as it was her job to point out all embarrassing things he did in front of as large of an audience as she could) when they all jumped and the loud and high pitched squeal Percy admitted from the other end of the room.

They watched as he dropped the blanket back over the baby (he had been determined to find out what was wrong with the boy) and was now slowly backing away from the crib, his expression one of horror and disgust that was quite comical on his little face.

Finally he turned to his audience, very, very pale.

"Mu-mum, he's, he's…why is he…"

"Oh, spit it out already!" Charlie had always been the most impatient of them all.

Percy took a moment to gather his thoughts, staring at his bro- well, his sibling. With his face more composed he looked back at them.

"Mummy…why is his…_why is he broken_?"

There was a sharp slap echoing through the room as Arthur dropped his head into his hand, his shoulders shaking in silent laughter.

--

**May 16th 1980 – 6:42 PM **

_The woman frowned at him as she would a stubborn child, before heaving herself up and waddling into the second room in the back. James could hear her shuffling through sheets of parchment._

_When she appeared at the door, file folder in hand and sympathetic look on her face, he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up – his stomach clenched painfully._

"_I'm sorry sir, but Ms. Evan and her child passed away early this morning…"_

_He continued to stare at her._

_The receptionist was looking from his blank face back to the folder repeatedly; biting her lip she gently inquired "were you by any chance the baby's father?"_

**_TBC..._**


	7. No Longer Funny

Family Ties

By** Chibi Tears of Pain**

**May 16****th**** 1980 – 6:47 PM **

"…_Sir?"_

_James looked down at the receptionist, and gave her a small, bitter smile. _

"_No, it wasn't mine," and James started to walk away with his head tilted an angle too high (as was common with purebloods), but his shoulders were slumped, and his swagger was more unpleasantly forced than his usual natural, supercilious sway._

_Then he abruptly swung on his heel and marched back to the table, his movements were rigid and his face firm._

"_Has anyone taken care of the funeral arrangements?"_

--

**July 24****th**** 1985**

The sun light wearily fought to break through the shredded curtains that were nailed into the wall above the window, each piece varying in height. The multiple strips of fabric, bleached white by the sun, lazily danced as the wind blew through the slight gap between the window pane and sill. This caused shadows to tease and play upon the ghastly yellow wall opposite the window.

A tall, narrow, and crooked bunk bed to the left of the window was shoved into the corner of the small room, its spinach coloured paint was faded (to puke pea green) and chipped in random spots along the frame. A large…contraption that acted as a desk sat in the opposite corner and took up most of the wall (a wooden plank attached to the side of the desk extended far enough to actually touch the other wall, while taking up the head space of the bottom bunk).

The 'contraption' was half of the desk that use to sit in the ministers office (don't ask…) and had a variety of flat pieces of wood, drawers stolen from the various Weasley antiques, wicker baskets made by Molly's own grand mum and a original edition of Newton's _Principia _nailed to the wall to make up the "shelf unit."

The 'desk' once had a fine, smooth finish that was now worn away, causing the desk to attack anyone who used it via splinter. It was splattered with ink and glue, not that you could actually see it due to there always being scraps of parchment and bits of string lying upon it. On this day though, that was not all the surface of the desk supported – one Rowland Bennet Weasley soundly slept bent over the desk, his bottom lightly resting on the low three legged stool that was tipping precariously with the weight of his legs. While he slept, he remained oblivious to the amazing balancing feat he had accomplished and the massive kink that would greet his back muscles once he woke.

Which would be soon.

Something on the top bunk stirred under a heavy, and relatively new, blue quilt. Two limbs popped out of the blue blob; an arm and a leg. Then emerged a bright orange clump of hair; ratty and mussed from an active sleep.

Said hair took a deep raspy breath, matching that of a dementors, then exhaled. Loudly.

The snore bound across the room, bouncing off the walls and vibrating the cage of Patrick the Puffskein, making the startled creature emit a high frequency 'squeak' that mimicked sharp nails drawn across a chalk board.

This was shortly followed by a shout and a thump, as Rowland found himself lying with his legs tangled up in his stool and arms spread wide across the wooden floor. Sometime during his five minute staring contest with the ceiling, he realized that he was, unfortunately, awake…and Ron wasn't. As another snore resonated through their room, he decided to remedy that. Immediately.

--

Molly Weasley eased the pan off the cooker, smiling at the eggs that still sizzled from the heat.

"BREAK–" and the kitchen chairs screeched across the floor, the grumbling of her boys was a hushed undertone to the cheery morning.

She surveyed those who had sleepily assembled in the kitchen: Arthur sat at the head of the table and silently read his paper; Bill was seated to his right, the fifteen year old tiredly scooping some sausage onto his plate, his eyes were half-lidded and it looked as if his future plans held his bed in great esteem. Thirteen year old Charlie was sitting to Arthurs left, and was frowning into his empty plate – he was never one to get up in a good mood, and he would probably remain grumpy well until noon. Molly absently wondered how he managed at school as her gaze traveled left to Percy, who was only nine and yet was reading through Bill and Charlie's first year History of Magic text. Fred and George were giggling and whispering to each other across from him. Already trouble at seven – she didn't want to even ponder the turmoil they would cause when they got to Hogwarts; she just wanted to make sure they stayed in one piece before they stepped foot on the train.

Ginny absently wandered into the kitchen, still dressed in her nightgown, and sleepily made her way to the spot beside Percy while Molly scooped the eggs from the pan and put them onto a plate in the center of the table.

And they all waited.

A shout and thump over head made Bill smirk and Charlie move his frown from his plate to the roof. The rest ignored the sound and started to eat, but Molly was intently listening for…

"ROWLAAAAAAND!"

Arthur chuckled when he met her exasperated gaze as she returned the pan to the stove, then ducked away from her disapproving look to smile into his paper. Charlie was now glowering at the ceiling.

Molly settled her self at the end of the table opposite of Arthur and frowned at the two boys who walked into the kitchen. Moving to her right, Rowland gave her a quick peck on the check and a 'morning Mum' before sitting down at the table to digging into his eggs. A very wet Ronald murmured his greetings as he huffily climbed into the chair to her left and moodily (accompanied by the awkwardness that came from being six) dished himself some eggs.

Molly reached for her wand, but paused as Arthur beat her to it – a spell later, Ronald was dry and everyone continued to eat.

In all, it was just another morning for the Weasley family...but all days seemingly start as such.

--

"Bill, have you de-gnomed the garden like I asked?"

The teenager continued to stare blankly at her, only blinking when the cards he held quite suddenly exploded.

"Well?" His mother was getting impatient and was not at all amused when his face scrunched up in immense reluctance.

"Really mum, I have to–"

She unmercifully cut him off. "You should have finished your homework _before_ you spent the summer lying around – now go!"

"But…" he trailed off, protesting even though he was halfway to the door, dragging his feet the whole way. Finally his mind stumbled upon a suitable argument. "But it'll be dark soon, and it's a full moon, you know…" his ending silence was suggestive to the danger that could possibly befall him in the absence of the sun.

"Well then, you'll just have to work fast now won't you?" With that she turned, walking towards the door of the sitting room.

"But Mum!" Bill burst out in protest.

"Oh fine, take one of your brothers with you – but have the garden de-gnomed by supper!" yelled Molly Weasley and outraged, she marched out of the room.

--

**December 23****rd**** 1978**

When they entered the menagerie Bill headed straight to the counter, leaving a six year old Charlie to wander the narrow and tipping cage made isles.

Bill may have been only eight but he was on a mission – one he would complete, no matter the cost.

Mum and Dad were worn thin trying of take care of Fred and George, and when Christmas hit, things were…tight. Tighter than they had ever been, really. Bill may not be able to understand a lot of things, but he knew Fudge didn't like Dad or Mum, especially Mum. Bill also knew that _someone_ was making thing difficult for the family and he knew who he thought it was, but then again, what did he really _know_?

Who ever it was, Bill didn't really care. He had more important matters to deal with, because in all the chaos of trying to manage a pair of eight month old twins and three other boys, a single present did not join its six brothers under the tree.

Bill was here to set that right; Percy would_ not_ be forgotten, not at Christmas anyways.

So he stood on his tip toes trying to see over the counter at Mabel's Magical Menagerie while negotiating the price of a magical rat with Marcus Mabel himself.

Marcus was a thirty something entrepreneur with a round, puffed up and inflated red nose that always ran (due to his animal allergies) and thin brown, jerkily cut hair that had already receded down most of his scalp. He had once thought that all future business lay with animals (of all things…) and so, promptly after taking his OWLs and dropping out, he opened up a shop in a too small but over priced lot in Diagon Alley. Unfortunately, his business did not take off like he expected, and the man often found himself over charging just to make ends meet – something not easily done when looking into the overly large eyes of Bill Weasley.

"Look kid, I can't give it to you for anything less than three galleons."

The brown eyes, so resolute with their gaze, started to water.

"I'm sorry, but I just can't –"

The shrill screech of a child voice – a soprano that had not yet descended in puberty – echoed through the crowded isles of Mabel's Magical Menagerie – and for once the menagerie was silent. The owls had stopped banging and shaking their cages that hung from the high wooden rafters, the rats stop skipping, jumping and hula hooping, and even the little orange mangle of fur, perhaps a young kneazle, stopped its bellyaching bleat.

Marcus shot out from behind the counter to the fallen pile of cages at the other end of the store. Hurriedly, he started to throw them out of his way to get to the boy at the bottom of the pile –

His meaty fists, that had once handled a beater's bat with ease, grasped the large constricting body of the boa that was wrapped around the boy's body – or more specifically, his neck.

"Get it off! Get it off! Mum's gonna kill me if he dies!" The boy from earlier was pounding at his beefy shoulder, his desperate tone turning his voice screechy.

But Marcus wasn't paying attention to him, he was too busy trying to pry at the tense body of the snake, its muscles tightening and hardening the more he pulled – the boy's lips were starting to turn blue and Marcus was sure he heard a crack as the snake coiled around the kid's chest.

And while Marcus was thinking of lawsuits and bad media and murder, Bill was panicking.

"Get it off, you stupid oaf! Get that THING off my brother!" And still, Bill was ignored. Charlie's freckles had become invisible due to all the blood spotting in his cheeks, his constipated expression seemed to grow tauter, and the rest of him was all the more pale – _like Grandma Cedrella, when she was lying in her box bed._

Then Bill Weasley truly felt fear, and so, he did the only thing he could; he yelled.

"I said; GET THAT _THING_ OFF MY _**BROTHER**__!_"

And the snake was gone, hitting the sun bleached wording on the window before falling to the ground with a un-suspenseful 'thunk.'

That was when, on the floor on his hands and knees, coughing and gasping – the much needed flow of oxygen racking through his already quivering body, did Bill truly see Charlie as his _little_ brother, and he realized just how _powerless_ eight can seem.

Roughly grabbing Charlie by the arm and walking fast paced toward the door (effectively bringing the still dazed boy to his feet), Bill slammed sixteen sickles onto the jutting counter and grabbed randomly at the nearest tail like appendage before jolting to the door…

…Leaving a stunned Marcus, still resting on his knees on the cobblestoned floor, to contemplate that, with all things considering, it was far from wise for the boy to have grabbed a Runespoor after such a snake encounter.

--

"You're _sure_ Mum said I have to help you?"

Bill turned to glare at Charlie. He was standing in the door of the Burrow; his body was tense, though he tried to fake an offhanded lack of enthusiasm towards the chore.

Bill wasn't buying it.

"Don't tell me your chick–" a deliberate pause gave him time to birth a malicious smirk, and allowed Charlie to process what was implied. "Oooooh, that's right. You don't like critter-y creatures, do you? And who could blame you; after all, the common garter snake _is_ a class five dark creature. It rests somewhere in between the categories deadly, but petty annoyance and dangerous household pest. But, of course the chances of actually encountering said snake or even a_ boa_ are significantly raised than if you stay safely inside the house, cowering in the corner of the cellar, like the little slimly Slytherin you are..."

"…but if you really wish to get mum…" and Bill watched triumphantly as Charlie's cheeks flushed the famous Weasley red, the rest of his face paling in the flickering lights that illuminated the door frame from inside the house. He looked so much like he did on _that_ day, with his face scrunch up in anger, an outburst just waiting to –

"I'll come! Then you'll be sorry! I ain't afraid of anything! No _gnome_, no _dragon_, no _WEREWOLF! _NOT EVEN A_ SNAKE_! **NOTHING**!"

Bill didn't even acknowledged what Charlie had yelled into the evening, silencing the twittering of the late evening crickets; instead he turned on his heel and steadily walked toward the garden. He paused only once.

"Well, are you coming?"

--

Bill laughed silently to himself as he watched an angry Charlie spin in a circle, his movements jaded and harsh and for a brief moment, Bill had wondered if he had broken the gnome's ankles, but then Charlie released the stupid little thing, and it didn't matter.

They had worked side by side for half an hour now and the sun had left them not five minutes ago, yet Bill was still humoured by his crafty manipulation and Charlie still angered by Bill's earlier implications – something that was evident in all his edgy movements.

Bill rolled his eyes, really, Charlie needed to lighten up; water over the path and all that, to quote a muggle saying (his father would be so proud.)

There was a slight shuffle a few feet away, and Bill narrowed his eyes, trying to catch a glimpse of what it was from what little light escaped the house windows while ignoring the tantalizing scent of roast and shepherds pie that wafted through the garden – he really _should _have started on this earlier.

The grass stirred again and Bill smirked as he saw, briefly in an escaped flicker of light, scales. _Now what are the chances...?_ Bill wondered as he watched Charlie fling another gnome (easily forgetting he is supposed to be doing the same).

Bill finally decided that Charlie was just unlucky, and that such an ill-fated meeting was bound to take place one time or another, so what if he helped it along?

"Hey, Charlie?" His brother stopped mid gnome reach to look over at him, his expression one of extreme loathing.

"What?" Bill held back a chuckle at the venom in Charlie's voice – it was almost as if he was related to the little creepy he was afraid of.

Bill just smiled at him. "Here," and his hand darted out, grabbing the snake's tail, launching it at his confused brother.

And the grass was soft and acted as a cushion when he fell back; shaking as his hyena-like laughter escaped into the night and the salty tang of tears met his tongue.

"What in the name of Morgana is that racket?" It is only with his mother's interruption does he realize that Charlie was screaming – and that he had now stopped.

Mirth filled brown eyes; chocolate that melted the heat of the sun, met watery hazel; mud that swam under clear shallow water, and the next thing Bill saw was mud's dear cousin dirt, as he landed face first into the garden soil, his cheek stinging, teeth aching and jaw still vibrating from the punch his brother had _actually_ managed to land.

The quick rhythm of clothed legs passing each other told of Charlie's escape and Molly's yelling only confirmed it.

"Charlie?! CHARliiiieeee?! Charlie!!"

With in moments Charlie's back had faded into the rest of the night, and it was all Bill could do to sit there and listen to the circuit of words that echoed through his conscious; the last words that Charlie had said to him

"_Not so funny now, is it?"_

No, Bill thought as he brought his hand up to his cheek, it wasn't so funny now, not at all.

**TBC...**

Thank you for all the wonderful reviews from Fibinaci, translucency for summertime, semper paratis, Kari Minamoto, BellatrixMarlaLovett.

And thank you to all who have taken an interest in this story.


	8. A Guilty Conscience

Family Ties

By** Chibi Tears of Pain**

**July 25****th**** 1985 – 1:28 AM **

"_Not so funny now, is it?"_

Bill sighed and fell back on his bed, Charlie's words echoing through his mind.

"_Not so funny now, is it?"_

He rolled over and stared blankly at the wall.

"_Not so funny now, is it?"_

Then he was staring at his ceiling again, and his thoughts giving him no reprieve.

"_Not so funny now, is it?"_

.No._NoNoNoNoNo_! He got that, really he did. Charlie just didn't know how to take a joke….

'_A joke is when you use his __fear of snakes against him for a laugh?' _whispered the treacherous part of his brain, conveniently located next to the storage area that housed his overwhelming sense of guilt.

It's not like he had to take it so seriously…really, he had been doing Charlie a favour; he couldn't live the rest of his life in fear of all scaly reptiles…

But did you have to do it _that_ way?

Bill groaned and sat up to stare out his window. It was dark out, but not impossible to navigate due to the light of the moon that illuminated the night.

Mum said he probably went to 'Tree Top' – a large tree fort that Arthur had some how managed to build when both Bill and Charlie had entered their rambunctious tree climbing stage. It was the first project they undertook after the war, and though they were both too tall to stand in it, Charlie still hid away there to sulk.

The moon dully stood in the sky, portraying its innocence on a night of unrest for all wizards.

Slightly queasy, Bill snapped his gaze to his desk; littered in papers and old texts –

**Sometime a few weeks before…**

"_Bill, you said I could borrow that book!"_

"_Alright, alright; you can have it! Just don't natter at me like that; honestly, you sound just like Mum."_

"_I have to get my report done, and I __**told**__ you that I needed that book!"_

"_You actually __**do**__ your defence homework? Why bother? You'll just have a new teacher next year anyways…"_

_Charlie looked sheepish at Bill comment, blushing, he explained his predicament, "I know that. Professor Knacmire claimed he wasn't comin' back, but just yesterday he owled all the third year students about how he expected us to have 'diligently completed our designated assignments in accordance to our unsurpassed ability that we had so industriously displayed in the course __of the previous school year." _

_Bill watched his brother bemused as the boy imperiously held out his hand for the book. _

"_he then goes on to say that, even though he will not be returning, he can find the time to mark said 'designated assignments' as our 'education is of his utmost priority.'"_

_Bill laughed as he flung the book at his younger brother, stopping only when the boy grabbed the book off the floor from where it had landed (after hitting him). Murmuring 'pompous bastard' under his breath, Charlie retreated from Bills 'layer' as the boy broke into another fit of laughter. _

Bill stared at the book: _'Werewolves Under the Crescent Moon: How They Live When Not Consumed By the Beast.' _

_Damn._

Bill jumped off his bed and ran for the door. Speeding through the hall and into the kitchen, he didn't even stop to take his coat off the congested and overloaded coat rack that crowded the doorway. Flinging the door open, he ran into the night.

It was only a few kilometres to the 'Tree Top;' he could be there in less than half an hour. And with that thought Bill ran across the meadow, its size amplified and endless in the light of the full moon.

--

Charlie was starring at the make shift wall of the tree fort – the tarps attempts to spring free from the opening to which it was nailed was far from reassuring. He sat there, his knees drawn to his chess and continued to stare blankly at the olive tarp, it seemed as if the wind would not give in tonight.

A particularly strong gust of air hits the wall, accompanied by the hissing whistle of angry winds – it briefly made consider going home.

Then he remembered Bill – the stupid pillock. Just had to go and make everything worse…

Charlie was viciously reminded as to why he was there in the first place…Bill, he – he just had to – he always had to nark at him until, he just – ughhhh; Bill just went** too** far this time!

Charlie glared at the tarp as if it was the source of all his problems. The wind violently shook the flimsy fabric in retaliation.

Charlie's glare turned mutinous as he glanced around the small hut like room. From the multiple ratty blankets that adorned the unrelentingly solid floor boards, to the many sticks that made up the north wall, causing the wind to whistle as it passed by. Then there was the precariously built south wall that he leaned on, littered with carved games of noughts and crosses and little sayings that were once reverently repeated at every opportunity.

The wind struck the tarp again.

Perhaps going home wouldn't be so bad – he would rather have a real fire than some faded warming charms, any day, but Bill…

The wind screamed once again.

"– here you ginormous git! Now let me in! It's bloody freezing out here!"

And sounded strangely like Bill.

Charlie jumped as the floor vibrated – something was banging on the door and Charlie pensively watched the closed latch, trying to decide if he should really let Bill in.

Bill decided for him.

"Let me in you pompous prat!"

Charlie leaned back against the wall and eased the tension out of his shoulders, consciously trying to relax while ignore the new bout of banging. Ah, solitude.

"C'mon Charlie, please. Just let me in, it's like a hurricane out here! Please!"

Charlie sighed.

The scraping of a latch and a square part of the false door was lifted up; the only invitation he would receive into the 'Tree Top.'

Charlie glowered at the floor were it rose to allow Bill to sluggishly climb in out of the wind.

There was the irritating sound of Bill as he tried to comfortably arrange his too large adolescent body into a small space meant for eight year olds – a goal that wasn't going too well. The wind, once a fearsome protagonist, was a comforting rhythm that let Charlie ignore Bills intrusion into his space.

Bill finally stopped shuffling and looked around the fort. "Well, this is comfy." The silence was overwhelming, bearing his guilt. "It's been a while since I was last up here, you've really –"

"What do you want Bill?"

Bill sighed as he viewed his brothers closed off face, he – damn, now what?

"Look, I might have…"

Charlie looked incredulous.

"Alright, so I shouldn't have…"

Now he looked down right sceptical.

"Look, your not making this any easier!"

Now he just looked bemused.

"Look, I'm sorry, alright? I was a down right prick and I'm _sorry_. Merlin, you really know how to hold a grudge!"

Silence once again filled the small space; tension making Bill fidget and frown at his brother.

"Just like Mum!" two voices echoed over the thundering tarp.

Bill blinked at Charlie.

"Really Bill, you've used it so much it's starting to get old – you're predictable like that you know."

Bill watched, perplexed as his brother crawled towards the exit awkwardly shift in front of him, push Bill into the tarp, then quickly sliding down the hole onto the variety of nailed boards (and in one case, a tightly strung rope) that made up the latter to the 'Tree Top.'

Looking up at his bewildered brother (who had no intention of going back out into _that_), Charlie gazed guardedly at his brother, his tone mimicking the one Bill had used to ask the exact same question, not even a full day before.

"Well, are you coming?"

--

"And then, I swear, she must've been –"

Charlie looked up at Bill quizzically, wondering why he had suddenly stopped such an animated monologue; then he heard it too.

First it was the slight sway that grass seems to make – something easily passed off as the wind, if he ignored the chill that crept along his spine, raising the hair on his neck; instinctively signalling his legs to run.

And so Charlie did ignore it – he was human: a species too good at disregarding their own survival instincts for the preservation of their pride.

This would be a decision that Charlie will never be able to fully decide if he actually regretted, or if it really would have made all that much of a difference in the long run.

There was an echo of something pounding into the cold ground – and then nothing. The chill had run deeper now, extending in tendrils down his arm, coating his fingers until he forgot he had such appendages.

_This_ was when Bill and Charlie finally decided to run.

They simultaneously launched themselves across the meadow, and Charlie could feel the long grass whipping by his clothed legs and was briefly envious of Bills longer leg span that allowed him to run slightly ahead of him, farther away from _it_.

There was another echo of feet – paws? – hitting the chilled ground and Charlie pushed himself to go faster. The wind was stinging his face – and Charlie was scared – _sososoveryscared. _ He could feel it; the dread that built up, tightening in his chest as the _thing_ got closer – and they were running and Charlie couldn't breathe. His lungs felt as if they had burned to ash, and every wheezing breath scattered the embers around his chest – sending sharp pains racing through his body.

But he kept on running.

They weren't even heading towards home anymore – but he couldn't bring himself to care. He knew that if they kept on running until sunrise – not too long away now – they would be _safe_. And so Charlie _ranranran_ – they were so _close_. His legs pumped and he could feel his muscles seize – but he was going too fast to stop, and the momentum continued to carry him forward.

Then Charlie tripped_._

--

Bill glanced to his right, and watched, from the corner of his eye, as his brother raced up beside –

Then his brother was gone.

By looking over his shoulder Bill saw the blob that was Charlie – it that was not moving and too close to the ground – yet Bill found himself still running, and the still figure that was his _brother _was getting smaller.

There was a shadow, a huge hulking figure that received anonymity from the night, and it was heading towards his the heaving, yet _notmovingforward_ body.

And now his feet were still moving, though his body was turned in the other direction so he was closing in on the fallen boy, but the shadow was faster. It darted diagonally to the far left, then sharply turned right – its actions were wild and uncontained and … now headed straight for Charlie.

--

Charlie was unexplainably hot and he was having trouble catching his breath. His limbs refused to move they ached and were so _tired_, but he felt it still – the acute sense of terror that was steadily growing, pushing his panic to the forefront of his mind. He kept telling himself to get up and run before it was too late – _too late for what?_ – But his body, it just wouldn't listen; all he had to do was run

…_from what?_

"Charlie!" His gaze, staring blankly at the dyeing grass that stood erect in front of his head which laid upon its side, snapped up to meet the horrified eyes of Bill.

The panic escaped him, and with adrenaline powered strength, he whipped himself on to his back, just in time to see the impression of large clawed paws and a gaping black hole, lined with a row of yellowed teeth and the foul stench of compost burst through his nostrils to slam into his brain.

And Charlie screamed.

"_CHARLIE!"_

--

**November 26****th**** 1979 – 3:16 PM**

Severus Snape was sore. Normally the man hated such simple-minded adjectives – they marked the artless language of unsophisticated vermin, often whose brains diminutive size would not allow them to retain what they skimmed over while in presence of proper literature.

But Severus Snape was also exhausted, and so he would ignore the slip up.

He slowly straitened his curved spine from where it leaned over the motley chesterfield, his hand falling from its broken back to hang listlessly at his side.

He started to make his way to the narrow and obviously dangerous staircase from where he had apparated in – unconsciously the thought of actually fixing the missing steps and smoothing out the old wood to make room for a new coat of paint crossed his mind. Then it was viciously suppressed, there was no need to fix up the house – it had fallen into ruin long before he had – and he sneered at the word – inherited it, and so, in ruin it would stay.

He was leaning his weight onto the first step (one of the only sturdy ones) in preparation for the jump over the next three when he was jolted by a hard, frantic pounding on his front door.

Tense, Snape grimaced at the vibrating door. Due to it being hardly ever used, the halfwits hammering dislodged the layer of dust that had settled onto the putrid barrier.

Eventually, the sound paused, and Snape stiffly turned back to the task at hand: making it up the damned stairs (he briefly re-entertained the notation of renovation).

Then the pounding started up again, throbbing simultaneously with the man's head, as if splitting his mind through unyielding Occlumency shields.

Ignoring the imbecile at his door he continued up his steps; he stood resolute after his leap; ignoring the stabbing pain that parasitically traveled his veins, jolting his hip when he landed.

Before he could travel up the rest of the steps (an easy ascent compared to the troubling beginning) the door, far too old and uncared for to resist the twat's persistent beating, slammed open. It swayed slightly in the silence as the only two people on the property of Spinners End stared at each other; one in shocked disbelief and the other in unforgiving rage, with tears that refused to be contained by puffy eyelids leaking down her cheeks.

Severus Snape then decided that he was so sore and exhausted that he must have sunken down to a new, unsavoury level of delusion. This is partially because as an expert Occlumens, he knew his own mind; his faults and follies and failures – and he knew the last person he would conjure onto his own front porch, no matter the severity of the hallucination, would be Lily Evans.


	9. The Aftermath

Family Ties

By** Chibi Tears of Pain**

**July 25****th**** 1985 – 7:42 AM **

Molly's eye's nervously twitched from the table where her family was seated, to the front door. There was something wrong.

This wouldn't have been the first time that Bill didn't show up to for breakfast – random trips to the houses of his school friends were not all that uncommon, and the lack of warning was practically expected at such a rebellious age. But Charlie, while impulsive in his mood swings, had never _not_ returned before the sun was up.

She sighed as Fred spilled the milk all over the table, getting it everywhere else (including the fragile parchment of Percy's book) than his intended targeted; his cereal bowl.

While she and Arthur sorted out their older twins (as George decided to help Fred make a milk lake, only to discover that the liquid would not stay on the table) their younger pair listlessly played with their spoons and toast (though Rowland had an elaborate tower of crumbs forming to the side of his plate, causing Molly to wonder where exactly he got the crackers from…). Ginny was amusing herself by flinging soggy blobs of porridge at Ron, though she was mostly hitting the wall behind the unresponsive five year old.

There was something wrong – everyone was so _subdued_.

Molly, having finally wrestled the milk jug from a morbidly pleased Fred, turned sharply towards the door.

The startled shriek of Ginny and Percy as the cold splatters of milk hit them, and the shattering of the outraged ceramic jug was behind her as she desperately throttled the door knob in an attempt to open the door.

"Molly?"

And the door was open, revealing the pleasant scenery and allowing the soft breeze to flow through the kitchen, two desirable aspects that made the young couple buy the house in the first place.

But something was wrong.

There. Down the dirt driveway that led up to the house, two figures wobbly made their way towards the 'Burrow'.

Molly felt her stomach clench and an ire feeling of…of…she didn't know what of, but _something was wrong_.

Finally able to make out a badly limping Bill leaning heavily on a heaving Charlie, Molly felt as if all the air around her had disappeared, and the void left behind was consuming her, pressing in on her from all sides. She felt herself backing up, and her head was moving from side to side, but her eyes remained riveted on her boys.

No.

It couldn't have.

No. No. No. It was just a small accident – Bill must have fallen out of the 'Tree Top'

But as she thought this, both Bill and Charlie came within hearing distance, and what finally unleashed the anguished cry from her throat and made her knees go weak was what Charlie, tears streaking down his dirtied face, was repeatedly whispering.

"_I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry, Mum, I'm so sorry…_"

--

"Mr. Weasley?"

Arthur looked up at the source of the dry, rumbling voice; his red rimmed and blood shot eyes stared at the portly woman. Her face was grim, which did nothing for her fly-like eyes and squared jaw, and it did not give Arthur much hope.

Arthur made a quiet sound of affirmation, easily heard in the echoing halls of Saint Mungo's.

"Healer Moore requests your presence; he wishes to discus your son's _condition._"

Arthur cringed at the woman's emphasis and tried to ignore her pitying look as her ferried a lethargic Molly down the hall to Healer Moore's Office.

It was a sterile cell that greeted them – oh sure, there were a few pieces of furniture scattered about the room, as if the person who placed them there had hoped their random positioning and warm colours would add personality to the room – it hadn't worked.

In the middle of a tightly stuffed leather loveseat, sat Bill. He was watching his feet, casually leaning his arms onto his knees, and not acknowledging that anyone who entered the room.

Molly hurriedly scuttled over to her oldest; sitting down beside him she griped his one arm desperately – like she was waiting for a team of Aurors to storm the office and attempt to take her boy away from her.

'_Well why not?'_ Arthur asked himself bitterly,_ 'after all, he's a –'_

"You were not waiting too long, I hope?" Arthur shook his head at the just arrived Healer Moore, before walking over to join his family on the love seat, wedging his way between Bill and the arm rest.

Healer Moore had shortly cropped blond haired with leather skin and sharp, bleached blue eyes; eyes that never left Bill as he smoothly walked the edge of the room to sit down behind a rather large desk. Once he was seated, he seemed to relax, yet his eyes were still flickering from Arthur to Molly, then back to Bill.

'_**This**_ _is the expert on lycanthropy?_' Arthur thought incredulously, '_he's acting like Bill will up and attack him at any given minute! Bill would never – I mean I know he's now a – but he's still Bill…isn't he?'_

And so Arthur looked over to his son, as if the answer were written on his skin, only to meet the guarded eyes of –

…_my son._

Arthur immediately snapped his gaze away from Bill's, suddenly feeling ashamed for any such doubt.

Healer Moore cleared his throat uncomfortably to get the families attention. He was constantly looking down at the papers he had brought in with him, and when he lifted his head to address them, he stared at a spot behind them on the unendingly barren wall.

"Weasley, William A. Born November 29th 1970 – so that would make you fifteen," he murmured. "Infected by a werewolf bite on July 25th 1985, sometime between 1 AM and 4 AM ," he paused here to look back down at his notes while asking, "Do you know who it is who turned you?"

Arthur stilled and Molly sharply gasped. Honestly, of all the _insensitive_ things to say…

But Bill didn't seem too upset; only the tightening of his hands into fists gave away just how hard the last question struck him, even his nonchalant "Nope" was completely in tune with the average, uncaring teenage attitude.

Healer Moore brought his head up to stare at Bill, careful to keep his sharp gaze on the boy as he asked, "Are you sure?"

And for a moment, Arthur could have sworn Bill really did know, his face having cast a tone of bitter reflection – but then it was gone and Arthur was berating himself, thinking he should actually _wear_ his prescribed glasses – he just had to remember where he put them…

Bill nodded.

Moore pressed for more. "Any distinguishing features? Colour? Markings? Injuries?" His eyes finally met Bills and seemed to penetrate the very air between the two.

"Well…" and the adults in the office froze, as if moving would mean they would be unable to hear what was going to be said. "…it did have a tail…"

Arthur let his head drop into his hands; it was going to be a _long_ day – and he was going to miss work. Arthur briefly wondered if the excuse "my son was bitten by a werewolf" would go over well in the office.

--

"I'm sorry."

Bill froze, eyeing his door speculatively. He had been spending a large amount of time there lately and frankly, he was amazed about how much homework he had actually finished; McGonagall would be proud (he deliberately avoids the notion of her _not_ marking his work, Dumbledore is a kind man, barmy, but kind and surely he would let Bill come back, despite his…condition…).

"It's okay."

And Bill continued down the hall.

"NO! IT'S NOT!"

His hand is resting on the door knob, but refuses to turn it. He waited, feeling ridiculous for staring at the door just an inch from his face, but anything was better than facing his brother and seeing the boy's desperate need to be forgiven.

Because maybe he did blame Charlie, just a little bit.

Bill knew it was irrational, but he couldn't help but think, if he hadn't gone out to find Charlie…

'_That means you wouldn't have pissed him off in the first place_,' his mind chided. Perhaps the only reason he was angry at Charlie…

…was because he knew he could only blame himself.

"Yeah Charlie, it is."

--

He doesn't look at them anymore. Bill feels only a little guilty at this, but then, so does everyone else.

Dad is always patting him on the shoulder, like he's going to say something, but then he just smiles (rather forced) and walks away. Mum looks nervous every time she meets his eyes, and always hesitates when engulfing him in her too tight – _too desperate_ – hug. He pretends not to see the well hidden fright and the casually covered up rigidity that seems to make up their every conversation. He often feels as if he was reading one side of a badly written dialogue; their words too forced to be genuine and their silences too many and too awkward to cover up the implications of why everything changed.

'_You're a –'_ he feels the same, but apparently nobody else shares such feelings.

All they were was a sickeningly false charade.

He hasn't spoken to Charlie. He always leaves the room when Bill enters it, and he won't meet his eyes. Charlie is overwhelmed with guilt, and Bill can't find it in himself to comfort him – he too is feeling a tad bit overwhelmed…there are so many _restrictions_ now, on _everything. _

He doesn't know what to do with himself anymore (and he finally understands the high suicide rates of the newly turned).

Percy hit the books – he's barely stopped studying about Bill's _kind_ (as he calls them) and sometimes, he'll look at Bill in fear from what he's read. Bill had never before questioned the contents of the school books he was assigned, he, like many others, took the published word as truth but…then again, he hadn't been a …he wasn't then what he was now.

The twins (both sets) are just about segregated from the family as he makes himself be. They're always whispering to their identical copy, hands over their mouths, locked away in their own world. They barely talk to anyone else – and Mum seems to have given up on making them spill their secrets.

Even Ginny noticed something wrong; every time he sat down 'Ms. Independent' is always there with a story or a doll – she always wanted to be with him. But every time he holds her, she just seems so _frail;_ he feels like he'll crush her in a single hug and that – the increased muscle strength of the beast – scares him. The fact that he could easily hurt all of them, that _scares_ him.

But most of all, he just so bloody alone, and he often thinks that it's for the best…for everyone.

--

He'd done it.

Gotten registered that is. He didn't tell Dad; he knew that his father was toying with the idea of not registering at all, "to keep your future open," he'd said when reflecting on his idea aloud.

'_But surely when they had reported the attack Healer Moore_,' Bill sneered at the man's name, '_the bastard would have flagged the Beats and Beings Department about a newly turned w–were– oh, for the love of Merlin!_'

Despite walking into the Beast and Beings Department to_ register, _despite having to go through that gruelling report with that insensitive _bigot_, having to relive every action about the a-att… about the _incident_, he still could not bring himself to believe he was a – a …

…a werewolf.

Bill looked down at his forearm, and at the thick white bandage that was self-wrapped half-heartedly around it. Under the gauze were five, newly inked numbers; with them etched into his skin, he thought he could actually feel the magic in the new tattoo – which was ridiculous, because he was immune to the feeling (another _perk_ of being what he was). He was immune to the aura that radiated out from his arm, instantly appealed to people's survival instinct; a mental warning – labelling him for others to know what he was.

He also now understood why registered werewolves avoid crowds – and no, it's not to avoid the temptation of blood lust, as Nathaniel Notterson claims – but to see people shy away from you when they feel that fear inducing sensation cause but _you –_, it's enough to make even the most people loving person evade a crowd.

Bill laughed bitterly at the scuffed and worn floor of his room.

He was _marked._ That was it; done for; doomed; kaput.

Because it didn't matter if Bill saw himself as a werewolf or not; those who saw his arm, who knew what such an aura meant, who could not will their minds past their artificial fear; to them all he was…was another thing to be feared and _put down._

And it kinda sucked…

--

**August 26****th**** 1985 – Some time in the Morning…**

Molly had burnt breakfast. Everything went apocalyptic from there.

The ruined meal put everyone in a bad mood, enough that Arthur yelled at Percy when he informed them about his decision to spend a indefinite amount of time at Cedric's – both he, Cedric and a small number of closely aged boy's were, apparently, trying to break the 16 day game record held by Appleby Arrows and the Vrasta Vultures. The shock of Percy willingly taking time away from his self made study schedule ("because it's best to get a head start on the heavy Hogwarts curriculum") to play _Quidditch _of all things, made Arthur lose control of his already worn restraint. Though, in his defence, the resulting thunderous yell was more an accusatory exclamation of surprise that anything else.

Fred and George were unfortunate enough to be seated between their father and Percy that day and were subsequently shocked right out of their own quiet conversation by Arthurs outraged cry of "_WHAT!_" The fact that their conversation was skirting around the all the trouble they would get into if they broke one of the unspoken house rules had nothing to do with them rinsing their plates after breakfast, tiding up the clothes and contraband scattered across their bedroom floor, and offering to help clean up around the house.

Their angel act threw Ronald and Rowland so off balance that Ronald stopped eating (fearing they put something in the lunch they helped prepare and Rowland started to jump at every shadow and clatter; his paranoia would have met even Mad Eyed Moody's standards). So when a skittish Charlie ran into him (because his guilt ridden gaze hadn't left the floor all morning) it was only natural that Rowland retaliate…violently.

Of course it didn't help matters that their fight started in the living room where an on edge Ginny posed at the end of the couch cushion, just waiting for someone to snap at.

The ensuing fight broke both the couch, fire place mantle and the small, crooked chess table that was a Prewett family heirloom. Rowland had some how tied his own legs in a knot and was wobbling on his back while trying to undo them and Charlie was missing half a head of hair…and didn't understand just _how_ Ginny managed to pull it all out without him feeling a thing.

Finally, when Rowland had his achy leg untied and Charlie had gotten over his shock enough to realize that his head _hurt,_ they made a silent agreement to take out their most dangerous opponent (only because she didn't fight fair) before battling each other.

So when Bill came down the hall (because not even he, on a day like today, could ignore that racket) the massive pile of limbs and the occasional wild strand of hair froze, allowing Bill to stare at the scene they made.

Charlie was lying on Rowland who was imitating a fish out of water – grasping for breath as his lungs were being crushed by his much older brother. A brother who did not even seem to notice his pain, as his hands were busy trying to defend what was left of his hair from a triumphant Ginny who was standing on his back, plucking out the rest of his know knotted locks, strand-by-strand.

Bill stared blankly at the red thread-like filament floating around the room and tried to disregard both Ginny and Charlie's shocked expressions; they were guarded, but he could still see their uneasiness. Rowland hadn't moved for a while and Bill suspected he didn't know that his eldest brother was even in the room.

Bill absently rubbed at his sore hip – well he was sore all over, but his hip – the only physical vestige of what had happened on that night – hurt the most. Charlie winced and looked away; he doubted the guilt would ever fade – and Charlie spitefully thought that that was a good thing; he should remember what he had caused.

Bill's hand froze, and he smiled at them – strained as it attempted to mask betrayal and bitter-sweet hurt.

He turned around and slowly hobbled back to his room.

Ginny dropped the still attached hair that she had in her hand and stepped off her brothers, heading for the kitchen. She was not guilty – _for what_? – just antsy.

As she passed a hungry Ronald, staring forlornly at the fridge, she couldn't help but think that everyone was going loopy in this here house – but she knew that tonight something was going to happen, and that the tension in waiting was making everyone…well, tense.

She felt like she was stuck up tree, with werewolves prowling around its base, not letting her down.

Little Ginny Weasley was close - little children have always been the most perceptive – but she would not quite realize what had happened to her brother for a little while longer, because children can be quite oblivious as well.

Consequently, through him the cruelty of wizards would be exposed, and Ginny Weasley would find herself slowly replacing her uncompromising optimism with the cynical view that those who scorned her family for what they were were indeed, no more of a wizard than a close-minded muggle.

But right now, Ginny was just as on edge as the rest of the family – it was the Weasley's first full moon, and _no one_ was looking forward to the…changes it would bring.

**TBC...**

--

Wow. That was kind of long… I was going to write more, but I liked the last line and thought it would be an ideal place to end this chapter. Hopefully, if things go according to plan, the story will pick up soon…but, it's still so fun to write!


	10. Carrying On

Family Ties

By** Chibi Tears of Pain**

He hurt…alright it felt worse than that, but…

…he didn't want to be alone right now.

Which was ridiculous, because he _knew_ no one could be here with him. He didn't want anyone here with him, but then… he so did not want to be _alone_ right now.

Bill looked down at his trembling hands; his shaking had to be from the cellars unpleasantly cold air – he would not be scared of this. He would not let it rule his life–

The cement was pitilessly hard, and gave his head no mercy when they connected. He could feel the cool air skate across his skin – goose flesh breaking out where it teased the exposed flesh. He wasn't really worried about that though; it was dutifully noted in the back of his mind, as was the cement floor that leached through his clothes and solidified in his bones. Yet this did nothing to anchor him, he continued to twitch – Bill could feel his muscles contract and realise and it was _painful _and it _hurt_…

He didn't want this...

He really, really didn't want this.

His arms were locked around his knees in front of his chest and he shook, his knees hitting his arms in an attempt to spasm freely. He could feel this arms strain against the jumping muscles that fought for control – control he didn't have. He didn't want to do this – any of this. He didn't want this pain, this–

"–ahhghh!"

And his arms let his knees go; they flew away from his chest and shot out from him, flipping him onto his back. He felt his body repeatedly slap itself against the concrete, and all Bill could do was claw at his scalp, trying to get to the pain, the _problem_, and **tear it out**.

Because it _owww-hurthurthurthurt-_ _HE DIDN'T WANT THIS!_

Bill saw the cellar door – the only sentry that cared to watch him suffer through this; only an inanimate object between him and his family.

Bill had a moment – or thought he did – of clarity. He sincerely hoped that his 'guard' stayed indestructible; one person – _if he could still call himself that_ – who was tantalised by the moon, was enough. It's not like he wanted company, anyway…

Eyes widened as Bill felt his spine tear out of his back, muscles shredding away, snapping away from the escaped bone; skin rippling over muscles, tightening and tightening until it succeeded in reversing there positions…

The heat that ran down his back in rivulets finally warmed him – seeping right through his quivering, arching body so he could watch the coppery drops steadily fall off his shoulders. He went to scream, and more of the ­– _red, red so very very red _– molasses spew out.

Bill stared in horror at the blood splattered cement.

And Bill continued to _feel…_

Later that night, when a wolf, but man, yet still a _beast _cried to the moon that it could not see deep in the cellar of the 'Burrow,' the rest of the Weasley clan listened.

And they accepted that they could not offer him – _the creature that he had become_ – any comfort, no matter the tears shed or sleep missed.

Because there were no miracles for those who could not even afford Wolfsbane.

--

Bill stared at his loyal guard – its planks were scratched and the dark wood had caved in spots – dented by a savage power that no human possessed. But it remained standing and all Bill could feel was relief that his isolation lasted through the night.

Dazed, he continued to stare at the door, completely captivated by its simple and unyielding planks, because it was far better to be mesmerized by wood than delusional in pain.

He was lightly pondering whither or not the door was aspen or old English pine; not that he knew the difference, mind you, he just knew the door was wood….he was pretty sure of this at least, really though, the possibility of it being anything else is rather small…but with magic you could never truly tell…

And during Bills confuzzled inner turmoil, he never heard his ever vigilant guardian cry out; the un-oiled hinges of the cellar door protesting as intent ridden hands that pushed against the very purpose it was assigned hours before. The door opened and Molly was able to rush to her son's side, carefully lifting his head on to her bent knees. Bill did not even hear her frantic call for Arthur, too lost in his shock induced haze.

Bill had decided that the door must be merely a wall, disguised as a door, hence the reason for it being so solid...this delirious answer to his dilemma allowed Bill to accept the creeping unconsciousness that had been hammering at his head. It was in beat with his heart that pounded the blood through his body, and out beastly, self inflicted wounds that were the wolf's parting gift.

And while red stains crept along the stone floor, three small heads peeked around the wooden-wall door to see what had caused their father to go running down to the cellar.

One face was adorned with glasses, and it paled at the sight of - of the scene, wishing he had stayed out just a bit longer.

One of the twins lost last nights supper and went running back to his room, leaving Rowland to watch, wide-eyed as his brother bled from wounds that could not have been made by any _human._

--

Every time Percy met his eyes he flinched. That was how Bill knew that he knew. Oh sure, Percy had known about the attack and had accumulated a vast amount of knowledge about werewolves (no matter how false), but now he truly _knew._

But besides Percy's (failed) attempts at obliviousness, the rest of the family had settled into a tentative routine. Mum would scold the twins who had started to cause mischief (being secretly supplied with illicit items courtesy of Charlie's brawns and Bill's bored mind), then she would be distracted by Ginny who would hold her up until at least lunch, before Mum would set off to drag Percy away from his books. This gave Bill from seven am to one pm to enjoy the absence of mother hen. Sentenced to bed rest while he healed from his first…transformation (he really hoped that Moore hadn't lied when he said the first transformations was the worst, and while the others are not pleasant, they are definitely not as bad), he found himself reading, and rereading his books. But there was only so much he could read, no matter the comic relief the twins brought...or at least one pair did.

His youngest brothers were a different matter entirely.

Ron would stop eating when he walked into the room, looking pitifully into his food as if wanting to eat but knowing he'll be sick. Then Rowland, well he...Would. Not. Stop. Staring.

As soon as Bill was in the vicinity, Rowland's eyes would home in on him, and would not un-stick themselves from his body until he was out of sight, though he had his doubts on whether or not the walls actually stop his youngest brother's relentless eyes.

Bill did not know how much longer would last under those stares. They were not confrontational or accusatory, disgusted or frightened. They were worse; Bill didn't know what they were. Rowland's face would be completely blank; his eyes dulled so much that Bill could barley see the usual green tint in their murky brown depths. There was more than one time that Bill just wanted to yell at him, just to get others to notice how corpse-like Rowland would act around him. No one else had even seemed to notice that the youngest male Weasley had yet to say a word to him since the full moon, but Bill couldn't bring himself to point it out. He was afraid the Rowland's cool apathy would spread, and he had become rather spoilt with having his family (or at least most of it) back.

--

"It's not supposed to be like that, is it?"

Percy paused while turning the page, glancing up at the twins haunting his door frame. Rowland held his stare, his lip twitching downwards in an attempt not to frown, while Ronald started to shuffle his feet, angrily glaring at the floorboards as he partook in what he probably deemed a hopeless mission. Everyone knew it was taboo to talk about _it._

"Well, is it or isn't it?" Rowland was nothing if not insistent.

Sighing, Percy put the book down to focus his full attention on the twins. Really, he should have expected this, it's not like they could speak to mum and dad about this, not for the honest answers that they want, at least.

"For the most part, it is exactly like that," said Percy, "though from what I've read that is as worse as it gets."

Ron gnawed on his lip, his eyes unconsciously tracing the grain in the wood flooring.

"Is it like that for everybody? Or're we just unlucky in this too?"

Percy frowned at them. "Does it look like I know what other werewolves go through?" He crossed his arms tightly over his chest and looked away from them with a huff.

"Look," he said, his voice the only proof that he even realised they were there, belying how intently he was looking out his window. "We are not unlucky. Bill and Charlie were just stupid and now one of them's paid for it."

"What has Charlie got to do with anything?" Rowland had caught his slip, the little imp. Percy scowled at them as they scurried over to his bed, plopping themselves down in the middle of it in wait of a story.

"He and Bill got in an argument, and when Bill went to fetch his pansy arse he was bitten by a werewolf." Percy obliviously did not favour one brother to the other…obviously.

Ronald gasped at the evident truth that was revealed, even Rowland's eyes widened (far be it that his rock imitating brother actually make an involuntary sound) though Percy suspected it was more from his crude language and blunt statement than anything else.

"Is there anything we can do?" Percy raised an eyebrow at his talking rock of a brother.

"You know, to help and all," clarified Ronald, calling Percy's gaze onto himself.

Percy leaned back in his chair, deliberately to give the impression of actually thinking the question over. "There are various treatments that allow the transition to go more…smoothly, but–"

"Then why haven't mum and dad gotten' one?!" Ronald flung himself off of the bed in outage as he practically yelled at Percy.

"Because we're dirt poor, or did you actually think those hand-me-downs you wear haven't run through the sibling circuit?" Percy's retort was sharp – short, cutting and to the point, but it was truth, and that is what made it sting. Percy had broken the second Weasley family taboo; not only had he brought attention to their monetary problems, he openly scorned the twins for thinking that it wasn't an obstacle. Percy had been feeling frustrated with the situation – another that was forced on them that they could do nothing about – and he being was spiteful in unleashing in unleashing his frustration on his younger brothers, and the damage was done.

Red faced and tense, Ronald was shaking, his eyes trying to through Percy's forehead.

Then Rowland spoke – quietly of course, because he was always as silent as the undisturbed predator, still before the strike.

"We don't have the money now, but one day we will Percy, and then there'll be no more hamie-downs or werewolf-isms."

Percy merely watched their angry departure with a raise eyebrow, briefly wondering if he had ever been naive enough to believe that galleons grew in gnome holes.

--

Rowland sat unmoving on the three legged stool, having finally found his center of balance he was actually able to make use of the broken thing, at the price of even the smallest movement. His immobility did not affect Ronald as he kicked the desk leg, making the loose change on top rattle.

"So that's all we have?" he asked, dropping onto the bottom bunk bed, falling back until his head hit the lumpy and well worn mattress. Even that was a hamie-down.

"Yup." Rowland carefully turned his neck to face his twin. "Seventeen knuts and there sickles – that'll buy two bars of mum's frogspawn soap, three cauldron cakes and a blood lolly."

Ronald scrunched up his face in disgust as he half started to get up, "Blood lolly?"

"I've always wanted to try one, and the soap's for mum; she said she'd be needing more." Rowland spoke with the voice of reason, appeasing Ronald's worries.

"Then I get the extra cauldron cake." Ronald was now fully up right, though still on the bed and had his arms crossed, leaving no room for discussion.

"Of course."

They were both ready to purchase the merchandise that would help Bill through his transformation, and with that in mind, they were determined to travel to Diagon Alley to see their venture through. If only they could sneak by mum…

--

**TBC…**

Do Ronald and Rowland make it to Diagon Alley, or does their dreaded foe, the Mum-ster, catch them in time? Will the famed cauldron cakes cure Bill of such a horrid disease? And will Percy ever feel remorse for leading the twins astray with his vile words?

Well, as unlikely as that is, I just couldn't resist…

Thank you to JohnnyRocketship for pointing out that I posted chapter two twice. It was accident, and I will try to avoid repeating it in the future...but can I say, I'm human!

Also, I am aware that there may be mistakes in my writing, though I do try my best to catch them. If you happen to see one, please inform me and I will fix it when I update again. Thank you! :)

– Chibi Tears of Pain


	11. Dark Endeavours

Family Ties

By** Chibi Tears of Pain**

"Muuuuuhuum!"

Molly sighed at the sink, the yelling had disrupted her magical link to the nifty little self-washing dishes spell she had been attempting. Really, there was no peace in a house with–

"MUUUUHHHHUUUUM!"

"Alright! I'm coming! Just stopper your yelling Fred!"

"I'M GEORGE!"

"Well, _sooory,_" she yelled as she approached the stairs, "next time I'll ask you for your name before attending to your every beck and call!"

Ronald and Rowland silently watched from their positions at the kitchen table as Molly marched up the stairs – it was a guiltless spot where they did not wait for any sort of reaction from the screaming snack packs that they did not place in the Fred and George's room. They will also not admit to there being any sort of rivalry between the two sets of twins…because there isn't.

A glance was shared before both Ronald and Rowland were gleefully eyeing the floo powder.

The chair protested, adding yet another scratch on the dull hardwood flooring as it was pull out from under the table in the kitchen, into the living room, and right beside the mantle.

It could do nothing but stay in the place it was positioned – being an inanimate object – and allow itself to be climbed on like a common yard tree. Unwilling in aiding and abetting two five year olds escape the (relative) safety of the Burrow to travel in the a world that was not quite ready for the youngest pair of Weasley twins.

--

"Now, you remember where we're going?"

Ron nodded with the utmost seriousness. "Diagon Alley. And I'm not to fidget –"

"– or panic," Rowland cut in, causing Ron to roll his eyes.

"…keep m'eyes shut,"

"… elbows tucked in,"

"And don't get lost." They finished together.

"Alright then," Ron said, "me first."

Grabbing a pinch of the sequestered floo powder, Ronald boldly strode over to the fireplace. Tossing it into the ever burning flames, he paused slightly before the green flames. His eyes stared at the dancing threads of fire that whirled in front of him; one flame intricately weaving around another, before being consumed by it' cousin…

Ronald didn't know that when he stared into the fireplace, his eyes, usually some tone of brown, seemed as green as the flames that entranced him so. Greener even, thought Rowland, unnoticeably unnerved by such a change on his own twins face.

"Well are you going to go?" he asked impatiently.

Ron threw a scowl over his shoulder, before marching straight at the fire. "Diagon Alley!" he yelled, and the fire consumed him; as if he were merely another dancer in its discerning troupe. The poetic beauty was lost on Rowland; he was too busy cursing his brother's folly.

"Just had to yell, didn't cha?" he asked as he stormed angrily over to the fire, hurrying his steps and the stairs gave warning signals of multiple steps creaking at a fast pace; mum was coming.

"Row–"

"–Ally" Rowland shouted jumping head long into the fireplace, the bottom of his robe just brushing the tips of Molly's fingers as he was swallowed by a sea of flame.

--

Spinning and falling….or was it falling and spinning? All Rowland knew was that floo travel was added to The List. This addition severely limited the methods of travel that he had at his disposal – side-along apparition had gone awry when his father had tried to apparated the twins to Cross Ray Lane and portkeys just did not want to agree with Rowland's leg bones and right kidney.

Though mentally reviewing this list did help to stave off the nausea that built with each dizzying spin, Rowland still could not help but wish it were over, he didn't care where he might end up as long as he got out of this netw–

An arm emerged from a dimly lit fireplace that sped by, gripping the hair at the back of his head tightly it roughly hauled him into the dingy room.

Rowland tried to scowl at a hysterically laughing Ronald, or the smiling Tom who had kindly preformed the service of reeling him in through Leaky Cauldron floo, but he could not work up enough irritation to over come the relief of being out of that spinning cortex.

Slowly rising from his sprawled condition on the dirt engraved stone, he allowed his head to stop spinning before spring up the rest of the way. When the nausea from that settled, he offered Tom a smile, silently thanking the man. He then marched towards his twin – who had finally calmed his laughs down to the occasional hiccup – and lead them to the door in the back of the pub.

It was just their luck that a wand baring teenager was already in the room, hesitantly tapping random bricks, obviously having forgotten the order.

"Three up, two across." Ronald offered helpfully, a smile still playing on his lips from Rowland's…episode.

The teenager didn't acknowledge them, but hit the correct bricks and the gate way opened, bombarding the twins with the many smells and deafening variety of noises of the wizarding street.

They had made it.

Pushing past the teen, they rushed into the throng of people and were absorbed into the crowd of feet, knees and awkward elbows.

--

They sat at a table outside of Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor, racing the sun in a contest to see who could get to the ice cream first. Florean had seen them pass his shop (though how he did so while he was in the back room when they passed baffled them…­) and insisted they have a bowl on the house. Ron, never one to turn down free food, badgered Rowland until they both sat out in the sun with a bowl of ice cream to cool them: black licorice for him, pickled ice cream for Rowland.

On their table the merchandise they had perchance was spread out randomly, with exception to the purpose of their visit: the cauldron cakes. The two, immaculately packaged cauldron cakes were set reverently beside each other in the middle of the table, and the boys were careful to not squish the cakes that they had spent so much time picking out; only the best for their bestest brother.

"So," Ron said with a mouth full of black melted cream, "what now?"

Rowland took his time to think about their multiple options that would delay their mother's wrath…things weren't looking so swell.

"How about we check out some more shops, we still have a few knuts left right?"

Ronald nodded after checking the pouch at his side. As they left the ice cream parlor Rowland left a blood lolly behind for Florean in thanks.

--

Ronald was able to buy a second hand winged sling shot from a vendor that was hawk-watched by a sharp nosed witch; while one wing was bent at an odd angle and one of the bands was missing, it was still half way fixable. Rowland was looking at some refill supplies to their Grow Your Own Warts kit and had started to reach towards their money pouch to pay.

Then he dropped it and their hard earned knuts skated across the cobbled streets, people diving in on them like vultures onto the newly dead, ignoring Ronald and Rowland's high pitched protests.

"You see! This is why _I_ should always carry the money!" Ronald yelled at his twin, his hands coming up in a wild gesture to emphasize his point.

Rowland sighed irritability and looked away.

"Do you think there'll be any left on the ground?" Rowland asked in vain.

Crossing his arms, Ronald tightly shook his head.

"How about down there?" Rowland asked, pointing to a near by alley, its tight entrance hidden with in the shadows of the surrounding buildings and not a light shown from with in.

Ron looked from the dark twisting alley to his twin, and then shrugged. "Sure, why not?" he said, "It can't hurt to try…"

And so the Weasley twins unknowingly wondered into Knockturn Alley in search of their money.

--

"Perhaps we should head back Rowland…"

Ronald could barely make out the back of his twins head; though the slight sway of his beckon red hair made Ron think he shook his head. No, then. Alright, he could handle that, it's not as if – Merlin! Were those real heads?!

"Rowland, I want to go now…nothing would've rolled this far anyway."

Again with the sway, though easier to see this time because a dim torch hung from a shop that advertised poisonous candles.

"We can't, I'm sure we'll find something soon…" Rowland whispered over his shoulder.

The torches muted light floated over crates and abandoned barrels and baskets of questionable wears. The items either so valueless that they become burdensome or their owner so reputed that nobody, not even a true fool, would touch them. Shop window were mostly boarded up, and the items sold advertised by crude drawings on the outside of the wood, the doors were often hidden in shadowed archways that could have easily hidden a person.

"No." Ron managed to push out his quivering jaw, "I want to go. Now!"

Rowland stopped dead, causing Ron to walk into him and then stumble back a few feet. Rowland sighed before turning to face him.

"Look, just…don't look around, alright? If we don't find anything in within the next few stores we'll go back, okay?"

Ron nodded slowly, and Rowland turned to resume his pursuit into the depths of Knockturn Alley.

--

"Look!" Ronald jumped at the sound of Rowland's voice. Walking toward the vague shadowy figure that had given off such a loud sound (in a place that practically reeks silence, no less) Ron put a hand on Rowland shoulder and tried to per over at what he was pointing at…only to see nothing.

Yup, that was it, Rowland had officially gone crazy – the spiders five shops down must have gotten to him.

Rowland had to have some how felt his incredulousness, because there was no way he would be able to make it out in such poor light.

"I'm not quacked, you idiot. Look harder."

Ron tilted his head and squinted, wondering if it was even possible to 'look harder.' Really, what he said just proved that Rowland was truly –

Oh.

He moved his head again to catch sight of the reflecting sheen that emerged from a pile of rags by an uneven corner of a shop. Only a Gringotts coin would look like that, he thought as he took off towards it. He didn't notice Rowland's startled gripe.

Reaching down he scooped up both the over sized knut and the rag, and looked into eight very black, very round and very vicious eyes.

"SP-SPIDER!!!"

And the rag went flying, along with the knut inside it.

"Ronald! Now we have to find it again!"

Ron turned toward the voice, angry retort on his lips, but Rowland was already moving in the direction it went flying, his body quickly blurring into darkness with the rest of the alley. Ronald hurried after him.

--

"There."

Rowland blinked into the dark…and then found himself taking three steps back as his twin suddenly materialized in front of his face. He followed closely behind Ronald, still unable to see what had caught his eye. When Ron stopped and bent down, he relaxed. This place was starting to unnerve him, now they could finally go bac–

"It's not here!" was Ronald's hushed exclamation, his hands limply holding a shadow that must have been the rag…though his lack of volume was pointless; everything said was carried through the alley with perfect clarity, even the quietest of whispering was heard.

"What do you mean it's not there, it has to be there!" he too forced his tone into a soft hush.

"Well, it's not!" Ronald bit back.

"A Gringotts coin won't just disappear like that Ron! It has to have gone somewhere…"

"Like here?"

Both boys looked up into the dirtied and sunken face of Floyd Flunmock….and continued to stare, too shell shocked to do anything as Floyd waved their lost knut in front of them, only to wipe at it with a corner of his tatty scarf to reveal silver underneath all the dirt and rust.

"Them anti-rust charms must've worn off. Merlin knows how long it was sitting their before you boys sought your grubby paws after it."

The boys continued to stare.

"Can we have it back…?" Rowland asked lightly.

"Back!" Floyd barked, expelling a ghastly wheeze of a laugh, before turning his head to the side and spitting a bogey looking blob at a store wall. "Was this here piece of silver ever yours in the firsty place, hmmmm?"

Ron hesitantly nodded.

"Lies!" the old man yelled, making both boys jump and then scampered back a few feet.

Floyd brought his head in closer to them and smirked. His prodding cheek bones hid the bottom of his face from view, so only his slanted and shiny chin was visible. His eyes, colourless and crazed, met theirs.

"But it could be, you know. This here metal could be yours…for a price."

--

"Just an itsy bit further boys!" the man chortled

Ronald and Rowland found their legs moving faster just to keep up with the bum's lengthy but unmistakably tipsy strides. They huddled into each other as they scuttled down the drafty side alley after the crazed man that had their money.

The alley, hidden in between two lopsided building near where their sickle had landed, was more of a giant crack than anything else. There were stones that jut out in front of you, making you inch forward, side first, just to navigate through the jagged maze.

"Almost there!" the joyous voice floated around a particularly large piece of stone that blocked the man from view.

Rowland slowly edged around the protruding rock, his back and stomach scratching against the surrounding stone. He shivered as another draft got caught in the crack and rushed by him. Scrunching his eyes and inching forward, Rowland took comfort in the hand that unyieldingly clutched the back of his boarding threadbare t-shirt anchoring him; at least he still had Ron with him.

When Rowland was finally free of the grasping rocks, he stopped. There was no where to go. Vaguely, he registered the muted mutterings of his brother as he too squeezed his way past the narrow crevasse, but at the forefront of his mind was the fact that they had spent all that time crawling around in a hole in a wall only encounter a dead end.

The creepy man had disappeared as well, leaving the twins in a roughly circular cavern. It was more spacious than the rest of the tunnel, but could have been no more than two feet by three feet, and the stone walls went up for miles…or so it seemed. Rowland didn't really know; it was too dark to tell. At some point there must have been a spell to have caused it, or the walls of the buildings had just leaned in so much that they blocked out the sun…something you wouldn't know existed if you constantly lived down here.

Rowland's shiver had nothing to do with the callous wind that blasted into him, face first.

…but he wasn't facing a wall…?

"So…now what?" Ronald asked taking a step that freed him from the rock and brought him into Rowland's personal bubble.

And then Floyd's head was invading it too.

"I thought you said you was coming?!" the decapitated head exclaimed.

The twins screamed and jumped back, their backs scraping painfully against the rock that had hampered there entrance into the small space in the firs place.

The man looked amused, his eyes wide and his smile deranged.

"Well, hurry your humpy hippogriffs!"

And his head retreated into the stone surface from whence it came.

Hesitantly, the twins started forward, pushing against the stone. First Ron pressed his fingertips against and then _in_ the stone, followed by his whole hand. The rock was soon swallowing his arms and when his head entered there was a terrifying moment when he thought that it would never come _out_, but at that moment he saw Rowland, and knew it was over. Beside him, pale, twiggy and huffing – just like him – from their exhausting maneuvering through the maze was his twin – he watched Rowland shiver as another breeze hit them. He had been lucky enough to wear the shirt today; mum's last resort to telling them apart.

"Well, glad you could make it. Floyd here just placed your bet for you."

…that wasn't the batty man they followed here.

Without looking at the source of the voice, Ron finally clued in that following that 'batty man' may not have been a particularly good idea to begin with.

--

**TBC…**


End file.
